I 

'i 

-•1 

■•1 






• A 4 
^ * 1 

^ ♦ *5 . 

.• »E- 


.'- V V- V«v 


if »*»N 



•».■•’ • ..... ..... 

V*'^ Cl • : I • t r-irrsr :.»'Lff i ^ 






♦:• *.3 «» 


t-TV 




II 


rrrrvm 




Vt' 










' « ^ , '- • 1 







LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

®ljap. ©opprigl^t f n. 


Shelf 




UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



















\ 


0 


HOW A-CHON-HO-AH 


FOUND THE LIGHT. 


BY 


ANNIE MARIA BARNES, 


Author of “ Ninito," " Life of David Livingstone,” “ Children 
OF THE Kalahari,” “ The House of Grass,” Etc., Etc. 




'^^nr a/A?v' 


KtcJ^monb, Va.: 

Presbyterian Committee of Publication. 
1894. 


I 

. ri, 2 c- H ^ 



Copyrighted 

BY 

JAS. K. HAZEN, Secretary of Publication, 

J894. 


Printed by 

Whittet k Shepperson, 
Richmond, Va. 


MY LITTLE FRIEND, 


EMMA METHViN 









CONTENTS 


Page. 


CHAPTER I. 

At the Agency, 7 

CHAPTER n. 

“ Dan-ka-ye,” 26 

CHAPTER III. 

The Missionary’s Daughter, .... 46 

CHAPTER IV. 

Camp Life, 65 

CHAPTER V. 

Camp Life. — Continued, .... 86 

CHAPTER VI. 

A Little Ray From the Light, . . . 107 

CHAPTER Vn. 

What A-chon-ho-ah Saw Issue-day, 

5 


. 125 


6 


Contents. 


CHAPTEK VIII. 

Is Dan-ka-ye Keally Coming 1 

Page 

. 149 

CHAPTER IX. 

Alas ! Poor Wanda ! . . 

. 174 

CHAPTER X. 

The Time Drawing Near, 

. 196 

CHAPTER XI. 

The Day Comes, 

. 223 

CHAPTER Xn. 

At Last the Light, . . . . 

. 243 


HOW A-CHON-HO-AH 

FOUND THE LIGHT. 


CHAPTEE 1. 

AT THE AGENCY. 

I T was morning on the plains — such a bright, 
fresh, beautiful morning! The sun shone 
with a pure gold radiance from a clear blue 
sky. The blades of grass fairly twinkled as 
the rays flashed across them. As far as the 
eye could reach on every side save one there 
were prairies, broad, boundless prairies stretch- 
ing away into seemingly limitless space until 
they met and mingled with the blue of the 
sky. 

Did the prairies go up to meet the sky, or did 
the sky come down to meet the prairies ? That 
would have been a question hard to decide, if 
decided by the eye alone, so closely did the 
two color lines, green and blue, meet and 
mingle. 

The single exception to this seemingly bound- 
less stretch of prairie was that side on which 
7 


8 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

the river ran. Here the view was cut off by 
the fringe of cotton- woods, willows, and elders 
growing along its banks. Over on the other 
side of the river there was a short stretch of 
low-lying swamp lands; then another expanse 
of prairie shut in by wooded hills. 

But the sun and the sky and the prairies 
were not the only things that made the morn- 
ing delightful. There was a grand breeze blow- 
ing — a breeze that caused the nostrils to distend 
and the pulses to thrill — a rich, royal breeze, 
such as a king might have inhaled with dehght, 
since it was laden with the delicately pungent 
odor of wild sage and of all manner of sweet 
growing blossoms and grasses. 

Here and there the prairies were dotted with 
clusters of white tepees, Comanche, Kiowa, and 
Apache. From the sail-like tips of each the 
blue smoke went curling away in soft rings that 
were soon lost in the deep blue of the sky. All 
around these tepees there was the stir of life. 
Women, men, children, ponies, and dogs were 
seen flitting about in every direction. In three 
days would occur the regular semi-monthly 
issue, and the Indians had come to draw their 
supphes. 

Some of the ponies had wandered away from 
the tepees. Quite a number of them were now 
picking away with evident delight at the cool, 


9 


At the Agency. 

fresh grasses near what seemed to be a small 
water-hole. They were, with a few excep- 
tions, well-kept and seemingly contented ponies. 
They had small muzzles, finely-pointed ears, 
trim bodies, though a little thick-set, and slen- 
der, shapely legs. Evidently these Indian ponies 
were greatly valued by their masters. 

Suddenly two ponies with riders shot out 
from two encampments at right angles to each 
other, and came speeding across the plains. 
The ponies were small and so were the riders. 
At first glance you would have said they were 
Indian boys. They certainly rode boy fashion, 
and the shells and beads and fringes of their 
leggings and moccasins flashed brilliantly in the 
sun as they rode. They had short cropped 
hair, too, which made them look all the more 
hke boys, while cheeks and lips and eye-brows 
were stained with many different colored paints. 
Their heads were perfectly bare, while the 
ends of the blankets they wore fastened over 
their shoulders and knotted about their waists 
streamed behind in the wind as they dashed 
along. 

Apparently the two girl riders did not see 
each other until they were near together ; then 
a yell-hke greeting burst from the throat of 
each. 

‘‘Ay haitch! Ay haitch!” said one in Co- 


10 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

manclie, and the other, “How! Howl” in 
Kiowa.^ 

Then they urged their ponies close together 
and stopped for further conversation. 

One of the little girls was apparently a year 
or so older than the other, but she could not 
have been over thirteen years of age. 

“Where are you going?” asked Wanda, the 
younger. 

“To the Agency. Come go with me.” 

“ But I have the ponies to drive back to camp.” 

“So have I,” said A-chon-ho-ah, “when I 
come back from the Agency.” 

“I wish I could go,” said Wanda, wistfully. 

“Well, can’t you?” 

“Not till I go ask my father. He might give 
Wanda the quirt ^ if she goes without asking.” 

“Well, I’ll go with you,” said A-chon-ho-ah, 
decisively. “ It’s not far ’round by your camp.” 

Then she stopped. 

“How many ponies have you here?” she 
asked. 

Wanda began to count; but she got mixed 
so badly that A-chon-ho-ah said : 


’ Both these greetings mean substantially the same, 
“ How are you ?” 

*A whip of horse-hair and raw hide used by the In- 
dians for their ponies, and oftener for their wives and 
children. 


11 


At the Agency, 

“ Na j ; let me count them for you You point 
them out while I count.” 

“Paa (1), ye (2), paa-o (3), ye-ke (4), unta (5), 
mossa (6), pant-se (7), yet-se (8), got-se (9), 
gau-ke (10), ten,'' she announced in conclusion. 
“Is that right?” 

“Yes,” said "VVanda. 

“Well, then,” said A-chon-ho-ah, “you go 
that way and I go this. We get them away 
from the others. Then we round them up and 
take them back to camp as we go. Your father 
will be all the readier then to let you go to the 
Agency.” ^ 

“But what will you do about your ponies?” 

“Oh, I’ll leave them here till I come back. 
That’s what I was told to do.” 

As A-chon-ho-ah proceeded to give direction 
to the process known as “rounding up” the 
ponies, she showed in every movement how 
well she deserved the name. ^ Energy, agility, 
were displayed in every fibre of her body. 
Soon the ponies belonging to Wanda’s camp 
were separated from the others, and the two 
girls proceeded to drive them as fast as their 
hobbled feet would permit. This hobbhng con- 
sisted of fastening one of the front and hind 
legs of the pony together with a stout bit of 
grass rope in such a way that he could only 


The name in Kiowa means “ To go quickly.' 


12 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

take very short steps. This kept him from 
wandering far away from the camps, and made 
him all the easier to drive in as his master 
needed him for service. 

When the two girls reached the camp, they 
found Watch-e-ca-da, Wanda’s father, ready to 
start on a journey. So it was a good thing they 
had carried the ponies up as quickly as they 
did, or AVanda might indeed have been made to 
feel his quirt. He was finally persuaded to let 
her go to the Agency with A-chon-ho-ah if she 
would return in an hour. There was work about 
the camps he wanted Iyer to do after that. 

Tonka, Wanda’s mother, gave her a look 
which meant for her to linger until he was out 
of sight. Then she laid a shining little silver 
piece in her hand and told her to do what she 
pleased with it while she was at the Agency. 
AA^ith a happy heart Wanda remounted her little 
pony and started off with A-chon-ho-ah. 

It was only about a mile to the Agency — 
indeed, it was quite in sight. -Had the little 
girls been the children of some Indian fathers, 
cruel and indifferent, as many of them were to 
their httle girls, they would have been made to 
walk. But each had her own pony and could 
do as she pleased with it. Though Watch- 
e-ca-da now and then used the quirt, as has 
been hinted, he was nevertheless kind in many 


At the Agency, 


13 


ways. He was a great hunter, and this was 
how he had gotten his name from concealing 
himself in the bushes. It meant “ to hide out 
of sight.” 

The two little girls galloped on toward the 
Agency. The breeze was still blowing briskly. 
It tossed their hair about and the ends of their 
blanket sashes. They could see all over the 
Agency some time ere they reached it. It was 
only a small place, though it played such an 
important part in Indian affairs. Outside the 
agent’s residence, his office, the supply depots, 
and about a half dozen stores, there were 
scarcely a dozen more houses. The latter were 
all occupied by white families, of whom there 
were only about a dozen throughout the Agency. 

The Government Agency of Anadarko is situ- 
ated very near the centre of the new Territory 
of Oklahoma, and in the extreme northeastern 
edge of the Comanche, Kiowa, and Apache 
reservation. It is right in the heart of the 
prairies, and away from all timber lines except 
those skirting the Washita river or forming 
scattered fringes across the Keechee hills. For 
some years it lay fifty miles or more from any 
railway station, but now an extension of the 
Kock Island route comes within thirty miles of 
it, at Chickasha. 

Anadarko is one of the five Indian Agencies 


14 How A-chon-ho-ak Found the>Light. 

that the Government has in the Territory. It 
is not a mihtary post, but a supply station. 
This means that it is a depot for the supplies 
that the Government issues twice each month 
to the Indians on the reservation. There are 
about four thousand of these Indians in all. 
They embrace nine distinct tribes, Comanche, 
Kiowa, Apache, Wichita, Towaconie, Keechee, 
Waco, Caddo, and Delaware. The two largest 
tribes are the Comanche and Kiowa. They 
embrace fully two-thirds the population. 

Our two little girls rode on at a brisk gallop 
until two new buildings just to the right of the 
Agency seemed to attract their attention. They 
slackened their ponies to talk about them. 

“ That yonder is the missionary’s house,” 
said A-chon-ho-ah, “ and the church where he 
preaches.” 

“ Have you ever been in there f ” asked 
Wanda, quickly, and pointing to the church as 
she spoke. 

“Yes, twice.” 

“What is it like ? ” 

“ Oh, it is beautiful ! There are pictures on 
the wall, and something in a great box that 
makes the sweetest music ! ^ And the mis- 
sionary is so kind and talks so nicely to the 
Indians.” * 


' An organ. 


At the Agency. 


15 


“Then why do yon not go often?” 

“ Because my father does not like for me to 
go. He says the white people are not our 
friends, even if they do smile and talk to ns so 
sweetly. He says that the white people — not 
these people, but their fathers and grandfathers, 
I suppose — took our lands away from us and 
drove us further and further away, until now 
we have only our prairies out here. But it 
seems they are sorry for it. They ought to be, 
he says. And now they give us these supphes 
twice a month and the issue of clothes once a 
year, and send us to school too, if we want 
to go.” 

“ Then, it seems to me, we ought to think bet- 
ter of them,” said Wanda, softly. 

“Yes, I think so too; but my father says not. 
He says this coming of the missionary is just 
some trick to get us over to the white people’s 
way, though he really likes the missionary him- 
self. So he does not like us to go to the church, 
though he has never said we shouldn’t.” 

“That is just the way my father talks,” said 
Wanda, “only he doesn’t hke the missionary, 
and has said right out that we shall not go to 
the church. It was all about a pony my father 
sold. It wasn’t sound, and he knew it couldn’t 
live very long, but he sold it to Dom-bi-di-e-ty 
anyhow. Dom-bi-di-e-ty belongs to the mis- 


16 How A~chon-ho~ah Found the Light. 

sionary's church, and he complained to him 
about my father, and begged the missionary 
to see him. The missionary came, and my 
father didn’t like that, though my mother says 
that he, the missionary, talked so kindly and so 
sweetly that he just brought the tears to her 
eyes. But my father only called her ‘a silly 
squaw.’ 

“He can talk, oh, so sweetly!” continued 
Wanda. “He talked to me once,” and now 
her heart beat quickly even at the remembrance. 
“ He has such kind eyes and such gentle ways. 
Oh, I do wish they would let us go to the church.” 

“I wish so, too,” said A-chon-ho-ah, with a 
sigh; “ or, that is, I could go if I wished, but I 
do not like to vex my father.” 

“What does the missionary talk about when 
he is at the church?” asked Wanda, suddenly. 

“ Oh, ever so many beautiful things I He tells 
us about a place called heaven, and of some one 
who lives there who loves us very much, and 
who is very sorrowful when we do wrong. He 
has a Son, it seems, who was qnce sent to bring 
a light to those who were in darkness.” 

“ What kind of a light was it ? ” 

“ I do not know ; but it seems that it makes 
every one happy who finds it.” 

“ Why 1 is it still to be found ? Is the one 
who brought it yet on the earth ? ” 


17 


At the Agency. 

“ No, he has gone back to heaven ; but it is 
said that the hght is still here on the earth.” 

“Oh, how I wish I could find it!” said 
Wanda, excitedly. “ It must be a very beauti- 
ful hght.” 

“ That it is,” said A-chon-ho-ah. “The mis- 
sionary told us that it was the most beautiful 
hght in all the world. Oh, how I’d hke to find 
it myself ! ” 

“ Do you suppose it is even more beautiful 
than the great hght up there?” and Wanda 
pointed to the sun as she spoke. 

“ Oh, yes ; many, many times more beautiful. 
It just shines right through the heart, the mis- 
sionary said, and makes it, oh, so glad and 
joyous.” 

The httle girls had been so intent with their 
conversation that they had not noticed that 
some one was approaching them. That some 
one was only a few paces behind. 

“Good day, my httle friends! ” a cheery voice 
said, just as another pony came up alongside 
theirs. 

The pony’s rider was a young man of twenty- 
seven or eight, with a sun-browned face, closely 
cropped black hair, and very keen blue eyes. 
He rode a pony of a beautiful bay color, sleek 
and glossy. His saddle and bridle were of 
Mexican workmanship and ornamented with 


18 How A-chon-ho-ali Found the Light. 

silver trimmings ; however, not gaudily so. He 
wore gray trousers, a blue flannel shirt, and a 
broad sombrero. His coat, to match his pants, 
was over the pommel of the saddle. He looked 
a veritable plainsman, though quite a gentle, 
subdued one, as he wore neither spurs at his 
heels nor pistol or knife at his belt. His gene- 
ral appearance betokened Mexican blood. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Andres,’’ said both the 
little girls, quickly. 

Andres Martinez was a great favorite on the 
reservation with whites and Indians alike. He 
was of full Mexican blood, though he was what 
is known as a Mexican Indian ; that is, he had 
been captured by the Indians in childhood and 
reared by them. His captors were Comanches, 
and he had been captured during one of their 
raids into New Mexico. He was then only 
about seven years of age. When fourteen he 
had been traded to the Kiowas. Thus he under- 
stood both languages perfectly. He also under- 
stood his own, for when twenty years of age 
Andres had, through some sudden stroke of 
good fortune, traced out his childhood’s home 
and his parents — or that is, his mother, for his 
father was dead. He remained with his mother 
five years ; then at her death he had returned to 
the reservation, for he had formed many attach- 
ments there. He was no longer a slave, nor 


At the Agency. 


19 


had he been for many years. The Government 
had taken that matter into its hands some time 
ere Andres found his mother. Andres, in addi- 
tion to his knowledge of many of the Indian 
tongues, and also of his own, was well educated, 
for he had spent five years at the Government 
schools. Thus he was a most valuable aid to 
the missionary as interpreter, in which capacity 
he was now principally serving. But, what was 
better still, Andres had become a Christian. 
Thus heart, as well as lips, spoke to the people 
when he was interpreting. 

“And where are my little friends going?” he 
asked again, cheerily. 

“We are going to the Agency, Mr. Andres,” 
said A-chon-ho-ah. 

“To buy all there is in the stores?” asked 
he, gaily. 

“Oh, Mr. Andres! with this?'' and Wanda 
showed him the little silver piece glittering in 
her hand. 

“And is that all the capital my little friend 
has?” 

“Yes, Mr. Andres, every bit.” 

“Well, here is another to keep it company,” 
and he took a gleaming silver piece, twice the 
size of the other, from a little netted purse he 
carried at his belt, and dropped it into her palm 
beside the other. “There! that doesn’t look 


20 IIow A-cJwn-ho-ah Found the Light. 

near so lonesome. Mind, now, that you buy 
all the candy that I know you love so well. 
There are sticks this long,” measuring with his 
arms, “ at Mr. Fred’s.” 

“ No, no, Mr. Andres,” said A-chon-ho-ah, as 
she saw him about to drop a piece into her 
hand also, “ I have here just as much as I can 
spend. Besides the money for her beads, my 
mother gave me two pieces all for myself.” 

“Why, what a rich little maid! Well, I’ll 
save this for one not anything hke so rich. 
There are many out here.” 

He said this with a sigh, while a sad look 
came for a moment into his clear blue eyes. 

“ Yes, there are,” said A-chon-ho-ah, quickly. 
“Sometimes I get so sorry for them. They 
haven’t any kind mother hke I have. She 
makes the most beautiful bead moccasins for 
the ladies at the Agency and their friends in 
the States. They pay her well for it, and she 
is always giving me a part of what she earns 
because I help her all I can. My father, too, 
gives me money.” 

“My mother, too, is kind,” said Wanda. 
“She gave me this little piece, and every now 
and then she gives me httle bits as she can 
spare them. But my father does not like her 
to spend money foohshly. Once in a while, 
however, when he is in a very good humor, 


At the Agency. 21 

and has traded well, he gives me a piece him- 
self.” 

“You two little girls are very fortunate to 
have parents who are so kind,” said Andres. 
“ Many of the Indian fathers and mothers are 
not so good to their children. Indeed, there 
are some who are really cruel.” 

“Yes, we are fortunate,” said A-chon-ho-ah. 
“ My father never has beaten me with the quirt, 
though he has whipped me once or twice with 
a small strap he has. But I do not mind that 
much,” she said, with a smile. “ He never hits 
very hard.” 

“ My father whips me with the quirt now and 
then,” acknowledged Wanda, lowering her eyes ; 
“ but it is always when he is very angry, and I 
can see when he is through that he is sorry he 
has hit so hard. But he does not whip me 
anything hke some of the fathers in the camp 
do,” she concluded. “Oh, they are often so 
cruel. One Httle girl was beaten to death 
not long ago, or, that is, she died very soon 
after.” 

“ Sad, very sad ! ” said Andres. “ And do they 
whip the boys, too, of your camp, Wanda?” 

“ No, Mr. Andres, they do not, or if they do 
now and then, it is only a little make-believe 
whipping. It is only the women and girls who 
are really beaten. The fathers are proud of the 


22 IIow A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

boys, and don’t ever like to do anything that 
will cut them in spirit.” 

“So it is at my camp,” said A-chon-ho-ah. 
“ Thus it is ever with an unenlightened race,” 
said Andres more to himself than to his hearers. 
“The women and girls receive the brutal treat- 
ment. The men and boys lord it over all things. 
Oh, for the spirit of Jesus Christ to touch and 
awaken these savage hearts ! ” 

They were now very near to the Agency. 
Andres turned his pony’s head toward the left. 
But ere leaving them he seemed to take a sud- 
den thought. 

“ Have either of you little girls ever been to 
the church at the Agency?” he stopped his 
pony to ask them, gazing at them intently. 

“Yes, Mr. Andres, I have,” said A-chon- 
ho-ah, quickly. 

“And have you not? ” he asked, still gazing 
earnestly, this time direct at Wanda. 

“ No, Mr. Andres, I have not,” and her eyes 
dropped. 

“ Why not ? ” he asked again. 

“ Because my father will not let me. He does 
not hke the missionary.” 

“ Oh, yes, I remember now ! It was all about 
Dom-bi-di-e-ty and the pony ? ” 

“Yes, Mr. Andres.” 

“ WeU, your father ought not to dislike the 


At the Agency. 


23 


missionary about that. He did it all for your 
father’s good. Could not your father see it 
thus?” 

“ No, Mr. Andres, though my mother begged 
him to do it. She said that she could see that 
the missionary meant it all kindly.” 

“That he did!” exclaimed Andres, warmly. 
“He has the truest, kindest heart that ever 
beat. Oh, if all these Indians could see what 
a friend he means to be to them 1 I am thank- 
ful that many do. 

“ And does your father dislike the missionary, 
too ? ” he asked of A-chon-ho-ah. 

“No, Mr. Andres ; but he doesn’t want me to 
go to the church.” 

“Why not?” 

“He says the white people are not really 
friends to the Indians, though they pretend so. 
He thinks the coming of the missionary is some 
trick to win the Indians over to the white people. 
Then they’ll do with them as they please.” 

“Oh, how mistaken they are! It is to win 
them over, but all for their own good. What 
different people they’d be if only they’d hsten 
to the missionary ! Cannot your father see how 
Un-ka-ma, and To-hau-sin, and Go-komb, and 
all the other Christian Indians are changed, 
changed greatly for the better? ” 

“My mother tries to make him see it, Mr. 


24 How A-chon-ho-aJi Found the Light, 

Andres, but be will not. He says it is all a 
trick, and that Un-ka-ma and To-bau-sin, and 
Go-komb, and all tbe rest, will wake up after a 
while to see just bow far they are witbin tbe 
clutches of tbe white people. It is so sad to 
bear him talk this way. I do wish be could 
see it in a different bght,” and A-cbon-bo-ab 
sighed. 

“ I wish so, too,” said Andres, earnestly. “ I 
am going to see him and talk with him, and I 
am going to ask tbe missionary to go, too.” 

“ He has already been twice to our camp, 
Mr. Andres,” said A-cbon-bo-ab, “ and it was 
too bad that both times my father was away.” 

“Yes, it was too bad! But be will come 
again.” 

“ Do you really think so, Mr. Andres ? ” 

“Yes ; and I not only think so, I know it.” 

“And will be come to our camp, too, Mr. 
Andres?” asked Wanda, wistfully. 

“ Yes, my child ; be will come there, too, and 
I will come with him.” 

“ Ob, I am so glad ! ” and, forgetting tbe silver 
pieces in her palm, she clapped her bands. She 
sprang down, recovered them, and was in tbe 
saddle again — mounting boy-fasbion — ere An- 
dres bad discovered tbe fall of tbe money. “ I 
was so afraid be wouldn’t come,” she concluded, 
“as my father bad treated him so bad.” 


25 


At the Agency. 

‘‘ Oh, the missionary would not let that keep 
him back. He is too faithful a servant of the 
Master to let that stand in the way. He will 
come. 

“ And now,” continued Andres, as he turned 
away, “ good-bye, my little friends. I do hope 
you can yet come to the church. I am going 
to do everything I can to bring it about. There 
is such a splendid Sunday-school, too, in the 
afternoon ; just the very thing for you. Oh, 
you shall come to that. I have quite set my 
heart on it,” and he rode away after having 
given each a look from his clear blue eyes that 
just warmed their hearts through and through. 

This conversation between Andres and the 
two little Indian girls was carried on partly in 
Comanche and partly in Kiowa, changing as he 
talked first to one and then to the other. But he 
need not have done this, as constant associa- 
tion with each other had brought the two girls 
to know both languages. He was delighted 
with the readiness of their rephes and the in- 
telligence they displayed. They were naturally 
bright, quick httle girls ; but this was not all, 
each had been several terms to the Government 
schools. They had to do this, or their re- 
spective fathers could not have drawn their 
share of the beef issued each month. Thus 
did the Government seek to care for the chil- 


26 How A-chon~ho-ah Found the Light. 

dren in the face of the parents’ indifference. It 
was a good law, and worked well in many 
respects. The only drawback was that the 
Government did not mingle Christianity with 
instruction. 

Having been to the Government school, the 
little girls spoke Enghsh very creditably, though 
sometimes the words were quite broken. How- 
ever, as I want to make this book clear to 
you, I will write down what they said, not ex- 
actly as they said it, but as they would have 
said it had they known English better. 


CHAPTEE II. 


DAU-KA-YE.^^ 

T he two little girls rode on slowly toward 
the Agency. 

There was quite a crowd collected around the 
store before which they alighted. It was the 
principal store of the place, and there was 
nearly always a crowd about it, especially at 
this hour of the morning. 

A-chon-ho-ah noticed among the others the 
tall form of Lone Wolf, the Kiowa chief. He 
had just returned from Washington, where he 
had been on some business connected with the 
tribe, and was now relating the experiences of his 
journey to a group of very attentive listeners. 
Lone Wolf was not really the Kiowa chief. He 
was only acting as such. The real chief was 
Tsait-tim-gear (Stumbling Bear) ; but he was 
too old to discharge the duties of his office, so 
Lone Wolf had been appointed to do that. But 
the Kiowas looked upon Stumbling Bear as 
really their chief, and he was greatly loved and 
venerated. Lone Wolf, too, was popular. This 
was very clearly attested by the animated faces 
now gathered about him. 

27 


28 IIo\o A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

Lone Wolf was quite tall, with striking 
features, clear-cut and regular. His hair was 
closely cropped, and his face cleanly shaven. 
He was dressed in full civilized costume, with 
the exception of a broad hat with glistening 
cord and tassels, and a belt at his waist, beauti- 
fully embroidered with beads and shells. He 
had just donned a long coat of yellow glaze — 
marked conspicuously with the Arm and Ham- 
mer Brand Soda — which Mr. Fred had given 
him. 

As the two little girls passed him on their 
way into the store, he stopped in his talk to 
give them a kindly nod of the head. Lone 
Wolf was not a stiff chief. He noticed every 
one, even to the women, children, and dogs — 
altogether an unnecessary proceeding on his 
part, as some of the surlier of the men hinted. 
It gave the women and girls stuck-up notions 
to be thus noticed by the chief. Of course it 
was all right for the dogs ! 

A-chon-ho-ah and Wanda made their pur- 
chases, the former of beads and shells, and both 
of candy, Mr. Fred generously adding a gay 
ribbon for the hair of each. They had just 
mounted their ponies, and were going away 
again, when a kind, cheery voice called to them, 
“ Stop, my little friends.” 

Turning, they saw the missionary coming to- 


^^Dau-ka-ye'" 


29 


wards them, leading his little son by the hand, 
and closely followed by his daughter. 

The missionary was not a large man ; indeed, 
he was rather a small one. Could he and Lone 
Wolf have stood together, which doubtless they 
sometimes did, it would have been a striking 
contrast. But he had such a trim, fine figure, 
and carried himself so well, that he gave the 
impression of being much taller than he really 
was. His face was not handsome, but pleasant, 
with deep blue eyes that could grow soft and 
misty with tears or flash with feeling, and a 
firm yet gentle mouth. His hair and beard 
were of dark auburn, the latter falling almost 
to his breast, nearly concealing the mouth, ex- 
cept when he spoke. 

‘‘Whose little girls are these?”' he asked in 
Kiowa. 

“My father’s name is Ton-ke-a-bau,” re- 
turned A-chon-ho-ah, in very good English, 
“ and Wanda is Watch-e-ca-da’s little girl.” 

Somehow she felt it would please the mis- 
sionary to hear her give the answer in English, 
and it surely did. A smile went all over his face. 

“Ah, you speak English ? That is good ! 

“And where do my little friends live?” he 
continued. 

“We hve first one place and then another,” 
said A-chon-ho-ah. 


30 How A-chm-ho-ah Found the Light. 

“Yes; I might have known that/’ returned 
the missionary. 

“But we stay chiefly over about the pasture 
lands near to Mt. Scott. Wanda’s father lives 
there a great deal, too. Just now our camps 
are out yonder,” pointing over the shoulder as 
she spoke. “We have come to draw the sup- 
plies.” 

“And I might have known that, too,” the 
missionary said again, and with another smile. 
“ Well, I want to come and see both of you little 
girls at the camps,” he continued, “and your 
fathers and mothers, too. But here is some 
one I’d like you to know, as I may bring her 
with me. Emma, come here, my dear.” 

At her father’s call Emma Melville came 
quickly and cheerfully forward. 

She was a bright-looking girl of thirteen or 
thereabouts, with much of the pleasantness of 
features that marked her father. She was small, 
too, like her father, but she carried herself with 
a dignifled, womanly air that made her appear 
older than she really was. 

“ Here are two young people I want you to 
know,” he said, as she reached his side. “ But 
there ! I declare I have forgotten to ask your 
names,” he said, with such a ludicrous expres- 
sion that A-chon-ho-ah and Wanda were both 
obhged to laugh. What a jolly, good mis- 


Dau-ka-ye^ 


31 


sionar j he was ! Somehow they felt they had 
known him all their lives. 

They told him their names, and then he in- 
troduced Emma by saying, 

“ This is my daughter, Emma Melville. She 
will want to know more of you, I am sure. So 
you may expect her to come with me to the 
camps.” 

Emma reached up and cordially shook the 
hand of each Indian girl, and then and there 
made two staunch, steadfast friends, who never 
forgot her all their lives long. 

Just as the missionary was about to say some- 
thing further to them, a young man came up 
very hastily and addressed him. Both A-chon- 
ho-ah and Wanda recognized him as Psait- 
kop-ta, a young Kiowa, who worked for a trader, 
trimming beef hides. He seemed greatly ex- 
cited, and there were traces upon his cheek very 
strongly suggestive of recent tears. 

“Well, Psait-kop-ta, my friend, what has 
gone wrong ? ” asked the missionary. 

“ I have lost my place,” returned Psait-kop-ta, 
with trembling voice. 

“How was that, my friend?” 

“ They wanted me to trim the hides on Sun- 
day. They said they could not keep up with 
their orders if I did not. But you had taught 
me it was wrong to work on the Sabbath, God’s 


32 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

day, so I could not. I told them so. Then 
they grew angry and sent me away, saying I 
need never come back again. Now I have lost 
all chance to make and save the money towards 
going to the school to which you wished me to 
go,” and the young man’s voice broke in some- 
thing very much like a sob. 

“Never mind, my friend. Trust in Jesus. 
There are other places besides this one. I will 
see what I can do. I will begin this very after- 
noon to make inquiries as to another. In the 
meantime, do all you can to help yourself, and 
remember what I have just said : Trust in Jesus. 
He is the sure balm for all our wounds, and oh, 
how bright he can make all the way ! ” 

After murmuring words of thanks, the young 
man turned and went away, but how different 
was the expression of his countenance now to 
what it had been when he first came up to the 
missionary! It hardly looked like the same 
countenance, so much brighter and more hope- 
ful had it become. 

The conversation between the missionary and 
Psait-kop-ta had been carried on in Kiowa; 
therefore A-chon-ho-ah and Wanda understood 
every bit of it. But what was that in the mis- 
sionary’s last words that sent such a thrill to 
A-chon-ho-ah’s heart? It was the mention of 
a name — the name she had heard before in the 


“ Dau-ka-ye.' 


33 


church — the very name of him who had come 
to bring that hght about which she and Wanda 
had talked, ^^Dau-ka-ye !''* Yes, that was the 
very name 1 The missionary had told them that 
it meant the Son of God. How A-chon-ho-ah 
did wish the missionary would mention this 
wonderful name to her; would tell her all he 
knew of this great person, “Dau-ka-ye,” who 
had come to bring so glorious a light ! 

As though in answer to her wish, which, it 
seemed to her, must come right out of her heart 
through her eyes, the missionary said : 

“ You heard me talking to Psait-kop-ta ? 
Well, the poor fellow is in much trouble. But 
he has done right, and Dau-ka-ye will help 
him, as he helps all who try to follow after 
him.” 

A question trembled upon A-chon-ho-ah’s 
tongue. Could she ever get it out? After 
much struggle she succeeded : 

“Who is this Dau-ka-ye of whom you 
speak?” 

The missionary turned his blue eyes upon 
her. Oh, how misty they had grown even in 
this short space ! 

“ Dau-ka-ye, child,” he said, gently, “ is he 
whom we call Jesus. He is the Son of Dom- 
man-yom-kee (God), hence we call him Dau- 
ka-ye, which means Son of God. We call him, 
3 


34 How A-chon-ho-ah Fouiid the Light. 

too, our Saviour, because lie came to save men 
from their sins.’* 

“ And I heard you say once, too,” stammered 
A-chon-ho-ah, timidly, “ that he had also come 
to bring us a light.” 

“That he did, child ; the most glorious light 
that ever dawned upon earth. So you have 
been to the church ? ” he broke off, quickly. 

“Yes, sir; I have been there twice.” 

“ Then why do you not come again ? ” 

A-chon-ho-ah dropped her eyes, and began 
to fumble with the mane of her pony. 

“My father does not like me to go,” she said, 
in a low voice. 

“ Ah, I see ! ” exclaimed the missionary, but 
aside from this made no further allusion to this 
matter. He knew only too well just how it was. 

“And so you want to know more of this 
Dau-ka-ye, who came to bring the light ? ” he 
asked, tenderly. 

“ Oh, if you please, sir ! ” 

A-chon-ho-ah’s eyes were no longer dropped 
over her pony’s mane. They were raised now 
with a light in their depths that made them 
glow as luminously as stars. 

“You speak English,” the missionary con- 
tinued, “and speak it very creditably. Have 
you been to the Government schools ? ” 

“Yes, sir; I have been five terms. I would 


Dau-ka-ye^ 


35 


be there now, but my little sister is sick, and 
my mother kept me to help nurse her.” 

“Then you can doubtless read in English? ” 

“Yes, sir; a little; but just a little^'" she con- 
cluded, dbubtfully. “I have to spell the words 
a good deal.” 

He took a httle book from his pocket and a 
pencil. Then he turned over the pages till he 
found the place for which he was looking. He 
made some pencil marks, placed a strip of paper 
between the leaves, and handed the book to 
A-chon-ho-ah. 

“This little book,” he said, “is called a Testa- 
ment — the New Testament, because there is one 
written before it which is known as the Old 
Testament. You will find in this little book all 
about Dau-ka-ye, or Jesus, the Son of God — 
he who came to bring the light. But you can- 
not read much at a time. I have marked a 
place, just a few verses, that I want you to 
read first. They will tell you how this Dau- 
ka-ye is the Light of the world, because he 
came to bring light to every one that sitteth 
in darkness. You will read there, my child, 
among others, this verse: ^ In him was lifcy 
and the life was the light of men!' Remem- 
ber that; say it over and over again till you 
know every word of it.” 

“ I will,” said A-chon-ho-ah, softly. 


36 How A-chon-ho-ak Found the Light, 

“ And would you not like to have one of the 
little books, too, and learn of this Dau-ka-ye ? ’* 
he asked suddenly, turning toward Wanda, and 
noting how wistfully her eyes were regarding 
him. 

“ Oh, I would ! I would ! ” she cried, excitedly. 

‘‘Well, I will give you one, too ; and I will 
mark the very same words. And you can read 
them together, and help each other understand 
them as well as you can. But it will not be 
long now ere I come to the camps. Then I will 
make it all as clear as I can.” 

He was about to say good-bye to them when 
a terrible sight met their eyes. Emma screamed 
in spite of herself. Even the little Indian girls, 
as accustomed as they were to the barbarous 
scenes of the camp, gave expression each to a 
sharp httle cry. The little boy drew nearer to 
his father, and clung to him tightly. 

A woman was approaching them, wringing 
her hands and gesticulating wildly to the mis- 
sionary. Her face and hands and clothing 
were all bloody, and as she came nearer they 
were shocked to see that one of her ears had 
recently been cut off. It was from this that 
the blood was flowing. 

A crowd soon gathered around the woman, 
but she did not seem to wish to see or speak to 
anyone but the missionary. She called upon 


Dau-ka-ye^ 


37 


him frantically, stretched her hands toward 
him, uttering broken sentences, intermixed with 
shrill, piercing cries. He stepped towards her 
and tried to soothe her, speaking gently to her, 
and at the same time seeking to wipe the blood 
away from her face with the handkerchief he 
took from his pocket. All the time he was 
doing this he was endeavoring to learn from 
her the cause of her terrible plight. 

But two things kept him from gaining the in- 
formation he desired : one was, the woman was 
terribly excited, which prevented her talking 
coherently, and the other, she was an Apache. 
The missionary knew very little Apache, though 
he had been for over five years on the reserva^ 
tion. The members of his church were princi- 
pally Comanches and Kiowas, as were most of 
the Indians in the camps around the Agency. 
But there was a sign language, certain parts of 
which were understood by them all. The mis- 
sionary was on the point of trying this when 
the coming of Charlie Ahatone, a tall, intelli- 
gent, fine-looking Indian, who sometimes in- 
terpreted for him at the church, put an end to 
this necessity. Charlie was a Kiowa, but he 
had been much around the Apache camps, and 
so understood their language very well. 

The missionary had, too, by this time, wiped 
enough of the blood away from the face to 


38 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

recognize the woman, though he did not re- 
member her name. He had seen her two or 
three times at the church, and, as was always 
his custom, had gone up to her and spoken 
some kind words after the services. This 
was doubtless why she had sought him in her 
trouble. 

Charlie now learned from the woman that her 
name was Tsai-bah-koim, that she belonged to 
an Apache camp about a mile away, and that 
her ear had been cut off by her husband while 
in a passion.^ 

The missionary tried to calm her, and finally 
succeeded. Then it was pitiful to hear her be- 
seech him to have something done to punish 
her brutal husband, or, at least, to help her get 
away from him. 

Mr. Melville fully recognized the powerless- 
ness of his position. Between these Indian 
husbands and their wives he dared not inter- 
fere. The United States Government has no 
authority whatever over the internal affairs of 
the Indians. Each tribe has its own peculiar 
laws and customs. It holds its own councils 
and renders its own decisions. No matter 

’ This barbarous treatment is still accorded Apache 
women by their brutal husbands. Women thus mutilated 
are no uncommon sight around the Agency. Sometimes 
the nose is cut off instead of the ear. 


*^Dau-ka-ye'' 


39 


how harsh and cruel a law may be, there is no 
redress save through the chief. But even the 
chief is powerless in matters pertaining to hus- 
band and wife. The husband is left to pursue 
absolutely his own will with the slave-Hke 
creature he calls wife. Men can abuse their 
wives in any way they please ; can horribly 
mutilate them, as this poor creature had been 
mutilated; yea, more than this, they can even 
beat them to death, and no law can touch them. 
It is only when the Indian violates the law with 
reference to the white man, his family and in- 
terests, that the Government has power to act. 
Then retribution comes swiftly. 

All these things Mr. Melville fully realized 
as he stood there before the injured woman. 
How much would he have been willing to give 
then if he could have done something for the 
wretched creature ! But he could only pity her, 
which he did with his whole great heart, and 
speak such words of comfort as were in his 
power. To his relief, he saw Tsait-hu-chel, 
the chief of the Apaches, ride up on his pony 
at this moment. He was in full Indian cos- 
tume, and his face was brilliantly painted. It 
gave him a much fiercer look than he would 
doubtless have had otherwise. The beads on 
his leggings and buckskin jacket were fairly 
dazzling as the sunlight flashed across them. A 


40 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

red blanket fell from bis shoulders and almost 
swept the ground. His hair was carefully 
plaited, with the tails of otters beginning where 
the hair ended. Eagle feathers, stuck near the 
crown of his head, completed his costume. But 
Tsait-hu-chel was by no means the savage In- 
dian he looked. He had a fair education, and 
could talk English creditably. It was only that 
his old Indian ways and customs had a stronger 
hold upon him than anything else. Tsait-hu- 
chel was evidently attracted by the crowd around 
the woman, though he could not see the woman 
herself. Curiosity, that prominent trait in the 
Indian’s character, was undoubtedly leading 
him to make an investigation. 

The missionary left the group and approached 
him. 

“ A woman has been abused by her husband,” 
Mr. Melville said to him as soon as he came 
within speaking distance. 

‘‘Well, that nothing!” said the chief, lightly. 
“I thought it something else,” and he was evi- 
dently turning away in disgust. 

“ But this one has been badly abused,” per- 
sisted the missionary, detaining him. “Her 
husband has even cut off one of her ears.” 

Still the chief showed no feeling whatever. 
Mr. Melville felt the strong temptation to give 
him a thorough shaking. 


^^Dau-ha-yer 


41 


“ They do that often,” commented the chief, 
again. “The woman herself is, no doubt, to 
blame. They act mighty big sometimes. Need 
to be kept under!” and the chief strutted with 
a big air toward the store, as though with this 
assertion he had settled the fate of every pre- 
sumptuous woman on the reservation. But the 
missionary was not going to let him off so easily. 

“But, chief, it is one of your own women,” 
he said, following him. “ I feel sure her hus- 
band has acted brutally, and he will continue 
to do so, unless you give him a word or so.” 

The chief was evidently greatly pleased by 
this appeal to his authority. 

“ What the woman’s name ? ” he asked. 

“ Tsai-bah-koim,” returned the missionary. 

“Oh, she very good woman!” declared the 
chief. “ She ought not to have her ear cut off. 
I speak to Tsomp-pa, her husband, ’bout it.” 

“Do so, chief,” entreated Mr. Melville. “I 
know you cannot have him arrested, or any- 
thing like that ; but some words from you will 
undoubtedly do him good. I have been told 
that you have great influence with your people,” 
concluded Mr. Melville, “and that they will 
generally do what you say.” 

The chief’s eyes lighted with pleasure. 

“I think I have,” he said, complacently. 
“Anyhow, I speak to Tsomp-pa. I’ll speak to 


42 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

him right away, as I go back. Don’t think 
he’ll cut off any more ears!” and the chief 
smiled assuredly. 

Thank you, chief,” and Mr. Melville grasped 
his hand, shaking it cordially. He then returned 
to the woman. Motioning to Charlie Ahatone 
to interpret again for him, he took her hand for 
a moment and said, kindly : 

“ Tsai-bah-koim, I have just seen the chief. 
He has promised me that he will talk to 
Tsomp-pa. I feel sure he will do as he says. 
Wait until he has had time to speak to your 
husband. Then you can return home. Is there 
not some tepee near by where you can stay in 
the meantime ? ” 

“I will go to the tepee of Un-ka-ma,” said 
the woman, quickly. 

“ The very place 1 ” exclaimed the missionary. 
“Un-ka-ma will make you welcome, I know. 
She is so good. You can go home by morning, 
at the outside — even this evening, if you desire. 
The chief will speak to Tsomp-pa right away ; as 
he goes back. He told me he would. 

“And now, Tsai-bah-koim,” the missionary 
continued, earnestly, “be of good cheer. This 
will not happen again, I feel sure ; so try to 
bear this trouble as bravely as you can. I will 
send Dr. Holly to Un-ka-ma’s tepee to dress 
your wound. And when you can, Tsai-bah- 


^^Dau-ha-yer 


43 


koim, come again to the church,” he added, as 
she was turning away. “ Come, and let me tell 
you again of Jesus, the Son of God, and how 
he helps us to bear all our troubles.” 

‘‘ Oh, I will ! I will ! ” cried the woman, ear- 
nestly, and she went away with a happy light 
upon her face, despite the pain of body and of 
heart. 

During all this scene Wanda and A-chon- 
ho-ah had lingered. They were anxious to see 
what the missionary would do for the woman. 
She seemed so sure that he could and would 
help her in some way. Indeed, she had come 
to him in preference to anyone else. How good 
he was, and how full of pity and sympathy! 
He was helpful, too, for had he not promised to 
get Psait-kop-ta another position ? And how 
readily he had gone to the chief to seek aid 
for poor Tsai-bah-koim ! A-chon-ho-ah deter- 
mined that she would tell her father about th'at 
scene. He surely would not say any more that 
the missionary had only come to set some trap 
to catch the Indians. 

How could anyone say that? thought A-chon- 
ho-ah, indignailtly. Instead of setting traps for 
them, he seemed always thinking about things 
for their good. He wasn’t obliged to have done 
what he did for either Psait-kop-ta or Tsai-bah- 
koim. It seemed to come right out of his heart. 


44 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

Oh, he surely was good, good all the way 
through, or he couldn’t have acted this way ! 

A-chon-ho-ah almost cried when he was talk- 
ing to the poor Apache woman. And there was 
the wonderful name again ! He had used it 
when speaking to Psait-kop-ta, and he had 
used it again when seeking to comfort Tsai- 
bah-koim. Yes, it was always to comfort and 
to sympathize that the name was used. How 
much healing it seemed to bring ! 

“ Dau-ka- 3 ^e ! Dau-ka-ye ! ” A-chon-ho-ah 
kept saying over again to herself. She was 
saying it thus when the missionary looked at 
her with that beautiful smile of his and said 
good-bye. She wondered if he knew it ; if he 
had any idea of the sweet music it was making 
in her heart. 

She clasped the little book closer. She was 
so glad Wanda had one, too. The missionary 
had been so good to them, and how sweetly he 
had talked ! Oh, she was just longing to read 
the words he had marked, all about this won- 
derful Dau-ka-ye ! 

There he was again, smihng at them ! and the 
little boy, too, who, during all the scenes at the 
store, had kept very close to his father, was now 
crying good-bye to them in the gayest voice. 

Oh, what kind and pleasant people they were ! 
Surely, such as they could have no designs 


*^Dau-ka-yey 


45 


against the Indians ! Her father was certainly 
mistaken. She would tell him so as soon as 
she got home. And she would tell him all about 
this wonderful Dau-ka-ye, too ! 

“Oh, he is so good!” Wanda said, as they 
rode away from the Agency, and nodding to- 
wards the missionary. “How sorry I am that 
my father does not like him! I am so afraid 
he will not let him come to the camp.” 

“ Oh, I don’t think he’d be so bad as that,” said 
A-chon-ho-ah, positively. “ He’d be ashamed 
to. Only I don’t believe he’ll listen.” 

“ Oh, that’s bad enough,” returned Wanda, 
with a sigh, “ for I do so want him to hear of 
this Great One, Dau-ka-ye, who has done so 
much for us and who came to bring us so beau- 
tiful a light.” 

A-chon-ho-ah’s heart thrilled again at the 
words. Always that wonderful, wonderful 
name! 

“Dau-ka-ye! Dau-ka-ye!” she said, again 
and again. The very name had a sweet, com- 
forting sound ! 


♦ 


CHAPTER III. 

THE MISSIONARY'S DAUGHTER. 

S they rode on they met crowds of the In- 



l \ dians coming to the Agency — men, women, 
and children. There were also many dogs, most 
of them looking fat and sleek, as though well 
fed. The Indian men were all mounted, and 
some of the women and children ; but quite a 
number of the women were walking, and not 
only walking, but carrying burdens. Now and 
then a whole family would be met, the women 
and girls bowed beneath the heavy loads they 
carried, while close beside them the husband 
and father would be moving majestically along 
on horseback, without burden of any size upon 
him or his pony. It was not unusual for a man 
of thi& kind to occasionally turn and use his 
quirt upon the shoulders of the women and girls 
following him like beasts of burden. 

A-chon-ho-ah and Wanda had not gone very 
far when a pleasant voice hailed them from 
behind. Turning, there was the missionary’s 
daughter! She had gone by home, mounted 
the pony that stood saddled at the gate, and, 
as they rode slowly, had easily overtaken them. 


46 


The Missionary's Daughter. 47 

The pony she rode was a handsome little 
brown fellow, sturdy and active, with small, 
trim ears that seemed ever on the alert, and a 
look in his eyes which said quite plainly that he 
was very well aware that he knew very much 
more than the average pony. 

The missionary’s daughter herself was a 
pleasing sight, for she was a good rider, and 
had a graceful seat in the saddle. A jaunty 
little cap was perched upon her wavy hair, 
while her dark eyes were fairly a-sparkle. She 
had one of her brothers with her, not the little 
fellow who had been with his father at the 
store, but one a few years older — a manly- 
looking little fellow of ten or eleven. He seemed 
to be quite delicate, and not to know how to 
ride very well, for his sister all the while kept 
her eye solicitously upon him. 

“We will ride to the camps with you, if 
you do hot care,” Emma Melville said, pleas- 
antly, as they overtook the two little Indian 
girls. 

Care ? Of course they didn’t care ! Indeed, 
they were glad to have her, and so told her 
quickly. Both had taken quite a liking to the 
missionary’s daughter. 

“What a beautiful pony that is you have!” 
she said, suddenly, to A-chon-ho-ah. “ Why, 
he doesn’t look like the ponies around here — 


48 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

I mean he is longer and slenderer. He looks 
more like the ponies we have in the States.” 

“That’s just where he did come from,” said 
A-chon-ho-ah, with a smile. “ How good you 
guess! My father got him from Pedro. You 
know Pedro, the Mexican, who buys and sells 
ponies ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” returned Emma, nodding her 
head ; “ I know Pedro well.” 

“ Well, when Pedro went to the States he 
brought the pony back, and two, three more 
like him. My father got this one for me. He 
paid a hig^ big price for him, but Pedro said, 
‘ That was nothing ! ’ ” 

“ I reckon it wasn’t anything to him,” said 
Emma, returning the smile, “since he got the 
price. I know Pedro well. He’s pretty shrewd 
on a trade. But I feel sure he has given you a 
first-rate pony,” concluded Emma, admiring the 
pony again, which proceeding was greatly ob- 
jected to by Brownie, her own pony, who seemed 
to understand fully what was going on. 

“What is his name?” asked Emma, again. 

“ San-ka-do-ta,” replied A-chon-ho-ah. 

“ Of course it has a meaning?” 

“Yes; Downy Feather. Oh, he is so easy. 
He doesn’t bump and jolt like the other ponies. 
I do wish you could ride him I Suppose you 
do?” she concluded, suddenly. 


The Missionary's Daughter. 49 

“ Not now. It isn’t just convenient, for, you 
see, we’d have to change saddles,” and a queer 
little smile played around Emma’s mouth as 
she spoke. 

“ Why ! couldn’t you ride mine ? ” asked 
A-chon-ho-ah, in surprise. 

‘‘ No, hardly,” returned Emma, with an ex- 
pression that made even her httle brother laugh. 
“You see, that isn’t the way we are used to 
riding.” 

“ I do not see how you ride as you do,” said 
A-chon-ho-ah, suddenly ; “ all on one side that 
way ! I should think j^ou’d fall off.” 

“ Oh, no ; I manage to keep on pretty well. 
You see this is the way I have been accustomed 
to ride ever since I could sit in the saddle. 
There’s everything in being used to anything, 
you know.” 

“ Well, it seems to me,” said A-chon-ho-ah, 
with an arch of her brows that made the paint 
show more brilliantly than ever, “ that when a 
horse has two sides it is very foolish not to ride 
on both of them.” 

Emma laughed. Here, surely, was a fine 
specimen of Indian logic ! 

“ So you believe in taking all you can get, do 
you?” she asked. “Well, that rule will work 
first-rate in some things, but not in all ; or that 
is, it won’t work the same way with all people, 
4 


50 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

because all don’t see alike, you know. What 
pleases one might not please the other. Now 
take you and me, for instance : you want both 
sides of the horse, whereas I am quite content 
with only one. Eeally,” she finished up with 
a smile, “ if I had the other side I should not 
know what to do with it.” 

I am like A-chon-ho-ah,” said Wanda. “ I 
could not ride as you do. I’d feel like I was 
coming off all the time.” 

“ Oh, no ; not when you got used to it. Come 
to the mission-house some day and we wiU all 
have a big race, and I will show you that I can 
keep on quite as well as any of you.” 

“That is good!” both little girls said in a 
breath. 

“ You, too, have a nice pony,” A-chon-ho-ah 
suddenly remarked. 

“ Yes, that I have, the old darling,” and with 
these words Miss Emma bestowed considera- 
ble attention upon the sturdy brown feUow who 
carried her. It was getting time, for he had 
gone sadly near the pouts. 

“ I call him Brownie,” she continued, fiicking 
some imaginary dust spots from his ears with 
the tips of her fingers, “not only because the 
name suits his brown coat, but because he is 
sometimes very mischievous” — here the trim 
little ears suddenly backed with indignation — 


The Missionary's Daughter. 51 

“ and reminds me of some frolicsome sprites 
by that name of which I have read in a maga- 
zine I get. Now, Brownie, they are altogether 
delightful little people ; so you needn’t lay back 
your ears in that way, sir.” 

“ He looks like he knows a good deal,” com- 
mented A-chon-ho-ah. 

Brownie raised his head suddenly to regard 
her. What a very fine little Indian girl she 
was, indeed ! He almost felt like he wanted to 
kiss her. 

“That he does," declared Emma, with an 
emphasis that fairly made Brownie snort with 
delight. “He used to belong to an old Indian, 
who abused him, poor fellow!” and neck and 
flank were caressed now as well as ears. 

“The Indian was very often drunk. One 
day, while he was in this condition, he rode 
the pony into a gully, such as the streams, 
you know, sometimes leave when they dry up. 
It wasn’t very deep, but it was deep enough to 
keep Brownie, laden as he was, from getting out 
until he came to the other end. So he trotted 
along the bottom of the ditch, his drunken rider 
urging him faster and faster. The ditch was 
very narrow, just room enough for horse and 
rider to pass along. All at once Brownie be- 
came aware that there was a httle child lying 
asleep at the bottom of the ditch, and not many 


52 How A-chon-ho~ah Found the Light, 

paces away. It was quite a little thing, not 
more than three years old. It had wandered 
away from the camps into the ditch, and there 
fallen asleep. Brownie’s master also saw the 
baby, but he didn’t seem to care. Indeed, he 
urged his pony on all the more. He spurred 
and whipped him so that poor Brownie was 
nearly frantic. He didn’t want to go on for 
fear of mashing the child, but he had to go on, 
for there were the cruel whip and spurs urging 
him all the time. The difference was, that the 
horse had a heart and the man had none. And 
the sequel was that the heart won, as it will 
every time when it has determination to back 
it. Brownie let his master urge him up to the 
child, and in a trot, too ; but he didn’t go over 
it. Instead, he picked it up with his teeth by 
means of its clothing and bore it out of the 
ditch, safely depositing it on the bank.” 

There was a chorus of delighted exclamations 
at this, and the hands of two little Indian girls, 
instead of one, reached out to caress Brownie’s 
shaggy coat. Of course he was hfted to the 
seventh heaven of delight thereby. 

“ And did your father buy the pony from the 
old Indian?” asked Wanda. 

“ No ; Mr. Andres bought him. He saw the 
old Indian abusing him, and he just couldn’t 
stand it, for Mr. Andres has a very tender heart. 


The Missionary's Daughter. 53 

He bought him and kept him a year, to make 
sure the ugly treatment hadn’t spoiled his tem- 
per. But it hadn’t. He was naturally such a 
sweet, gentle httle fellow that it had done him 
no real harm. After trying him a year, Mr. 
Andres gave him to me.” 

“Oh, we know Mr. Andres!” said Wanda, 
quickly. “ He sometimes comes to our camps, 
and he was with us only this morning.” 

“ Was he ? When was that ? ” 

“When we were going over to the Agency 
this morning. He rode a part of the way with 
us, and talked to us so nicely.” • 

“ He is always nice,” declared Glover, Emma’s 
httle brother, emphatically. 

“ Yes, that he is,” agreed Emma. “ My 
brother John says he’s as good as another 
boy. I don’t know how that is, but I do know 
that everybody hkes him, myself among the 
number. My father just couldn’t get along at 
the church without him.” 

“ He asked us to come to the church,” said 
A-chon-ho-ah, softly. 

“ Who, my father ? ” 

“ No ; though he did, too. But I meant Mr. 
Andres.” 

“Oh, that is just like him. He is always so 
anxious for the women and children to come. 
You ought to see him some Sundays devising 


54 How A~chon~ho-ah Found the Light. 

ways to keep the babies quiet while their 
mothers are listening. Sometimes he will go 
up and down the aisles, smiling at them in their 
broad cradles as they are leaning against the 
outside of the benches. All the time he is 
doing this he is talking to their mothers and 
telling them what my father has just said. But 
the babies are so now that he doesn’t have to 
do this very often. They just lie there and 
blink at him from the cradles while he is in- 
terpreting.” 

“Yes, your father asked us to come to the 
church, as well as Mr. Andres,” said A-chon- 
ho-ah, again. “And he gave us each a nice 
httle book,” she concluded, her eyes sparkling. 

“Oh, yes, he did,” said Emma. “You re- 
member I was there ? Though I was not look- 
ing at the time, yet I heard what he said. It 
was a Testament he gave you — a copy of the 
New Testament. He marked a place for you. 
It was a part of the first chapter of John. If 
you will give me the book I will read it to you 
as we go along.” 

“ Oh, will you ? ” cried A-chon-ho-ah, her 
eyes fairly glowing, while Wanda, too, showed 
her delight. 

A-chon-ho-ah took the book from a little 
embroidered bag that hung at her waist, and 
handed it to Emma. 


The Missionary's Daughter. 55 

And there, on that broad prairie, with the 
savage sights and sounds all around them, the 
clear, earnest voice of the missionary’s daugh- 
ter was heard reading the words of eternal life 
to her two little Indian friends. 

“ I know most of that chapter by heart,” said 
Glover, when his sister had finished reading. 

“Do you?” said A-chon-ho-ah, wistfully. 
“ How I wish I did ! ” 

“ Well, you can,” answered Emma, encour- 
agingly ; “ or at least, as much as my father has 
marked. I will read it to you again when we 
get to the camp, and show you the words in 
the book. You will know them better then 
when you see them. I will also tell you the 
meaning of all those you do not understand. 
So will I also do for you, Wanda,” she added, 
for she suddenly became aware that the eyes of 
that little girl were now wistfully regarding her. 

An old man at this moment interrupted them. 
He had been for some time intently regarding 
them, and making his way toward them across 
the plain. Now he came up close beside Emma’s 
pony. 

“ Chuckaway ! Chuckaway ! ” he said, eagerly. 

Emma looked at A-chon-ho-ah, inquiringly. 

“ He means that he is hungry and wants 
something to eat,” she answered. 

“Well, I have nothing with me, poor man,” 


56 How A-chon-ho-ah tound the Light, 

said Emma, regretfully. “You see I am away 
out here from my home, and have brought 
nothing of that kind with me.” 

But the old man persisted. 

“ Chuckaway ! Chuckaway ! ” he said again, 
determinately, drawing his hand across his 
stomach and then pointing down his throat. 

“ Poor Indian hongry ! mighty hongry ! white 
squaw, give food.” 

“ Oh, dear ! ” said Emma, “ whatever shall I 
do ? How can I give you what I haven’t ? But 
I’ll tell you what to do,” she said after a mo- 
ment’s thought, “ Go to that house over yonder, 
the one that runs out two ways,” pointing to 
the parsonage as she spoke, “ and that has 
another and a taller one by the side of it. My 
mother is there, and she will give you the food 
you need — that is, if you really need it,” she 
concluded, eyeing him suspiciously. 

He didn’t understand all these words, but 
he understood enough of them to comprehend 
what he had been told to do. The gesture 
alone would have conveyed this to him without 
the words. It may have been that he under- 
stood, too, the sudden suspicion with reference 
to his honesty. But if he did, he didn’t give 
the slightest expression of comprehension. In- 
stead, he turned eagerly away toward the par- 
sonage. 


The Missionary's Daughter. 57 

“ That will make the fifth one that has been 
there to-day, and it isn’t half over yet,” said 
Glover, with a demure expression about the 
corner of his lips. “ What will the little mother 
do ? There were but two biscuits in the safe, 
and the flour is getting awfully low. I heard 
my father say that if the Mission Board didn’t 
send his salary soon, he didn’t know what 
we’d do.” 

“Yes it is too bad!” exclaimed Emma, re- 
gretfully. “ I am so sorry I sent him to mother ; 
but, then, what else was I to do ? He seemed 
really hungry, or at least he so represented,” 
correcting herself. 

“I don’t believe he was half so hungry as he 
made out,” declared Glover. “ So many of them 
have fooled us. But then my father says we 
must never turn any away, for fear of sending 
off one who is really hungry. He wants all to 
feel we are their friends. He has denied him- 
self many times to give to them.” 

“ That he has, bless him,” exclaimed Emma, 
her eyes growing very soft and tender. “ I wish 
we could all be like him. But do you think the 
Indian was really hungry ? ” turning inquiringly 
toward A-chon-ho-ah. 

“I don’t know,” she answered, doubtfully. 
“ He looks rather fat, and so, too, does the dog! ” 

All turned now to gaze at the Indian, who 


58 IIow A-chon-ho-ah l^ound the Light, 

was some paces away, and walking with alacrity 
in the direction of the mission-house. Sure 
enough he did look rather fat, while his dog 
fairly waddled! 

“ But I guess fat people can be hungry,” said 
Emma, consolingly. 

‘‘ Yes, I guess they can,” commented Glover. 
“ Mr. Snelly is always hungry, and he’s fat ; or, 
at least, he eats like it. I feel awful whenever 
I see him coming to dinner, for I just know I 
won’t have much showing after he gets through.” 

“ Mr. Snelly is only greedy,” returned his 
sister, much amused, “ and this is, doubtless, 
what that old Indian is, too. Indeed, I feel sure 
of it now. Do not all the Indians get rations? ” 
she asked, turning again to A-chon-ho-ah. 

“ Oh, yes ; and they get plenty, too. I have 
heard my father say that they get quite enough 
to do them from one issue-day to the other, if 
only they are careful. But many of them are 
not careful ; they waste the flour and meal and 
beef, eating all they can one day and not look- 
ing ahead to another. They give it away, too, or 
feed it to the dogs — the beef, I mean. Thus it 
gives out before the next issue. Then I guess 
they are hungry.” 

“I have been in some tepees,” said Emma, 
“ where the dogs are allowed to go in and get 
aU the beef they want. They just jump up on 


The Missionary's Daughter. 59 

their hind legs and pull the strips down from 
the pole where they have been hung to dry.” 

“ Oh, yes ; that is quite common,” assented 
A-chon-ho-ah. 

“ I guess that’s what makes the Indian dogs 
so fat,” commented Glover. “Why, that old 
Indian’s dog is a heap fatter than ours now. 
Our poor dog doesn’t get beef more than two or 
tnree times a week, and then it is only scraps.” 

Both A-chon-ho-ah and Wanda looked sur- 
prised at this. Evidently, from this and some 
other things they had just heard, the missionary 
and his family did not live anything like so 
grandly as it was said they did. Why, their 
dogs had beef every day, and plenty of it, too ! 

They soon reached the camp where Wanda 
lived. As they did so they noticed quite a 
commotion. It didn’t take the little Indian girls 
long to understand what was going on. 

“It’s a wedding,” said Wanda, quickly. “A 
young man of our camp has just brought home 
a wife.” 

“ But what are those people doing who seem 
to be stealing from the others ? ” asked Glover, 
curiously. “Why, they look as if they were 
going to take even the tepee, as soon as they 
get all the other things.” 

“ Those are the parents of the girl the young 
man has brought home as his wife. They are 


60 IIow A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

taking all his parents’ things. They will keep 
on until they have taken every article on which 
they can lay their hands. When they have 
taken all the articles out of the tepee, then they 
will take the tepee itself.” 

“Why! I wonder his parents submit to it! ” 
exclaimed Emma. “What are they about, I 
wonder, to see their things go off that way ? ” 
“Oh, they can’t help themselves!” returned 
A-chon-ho-ah. “You see, it is the custom. 
This is the way they do : A young man sees a 
girl he hkes. He tells her so, or sends her 
word by a friend. Then they meet to have a 
private talk. Soon he takes her to his parents’ 
tepee as his wife. Then her parents go to hunt 
her, and when they find her in his parents’ 
tepee, then they proceed to take everything 
out of it, and the tepee too.”^ 

“ But what do the poor people do that have 
been robbed ? ” asked Glover, solicitously. 

“ Oh, they get another tepee and things, and 
then the young man who has been married takes 
his wife, and both go to live with her parents.” 

“ So the bride and groom really get the benefit 
of the stolen things in the end,” said Emma, 
laughing. “Well, that accounts for the easy 
way that fellow yonder is taking it. I expected 

’ This is exactly the custom still prevalent among the 
wild tribes in the Territory. 


The Missionary's Daughter, 61' 

to see him boil over with rage — at least when 
the tepee was taken down.” 

“Oh, he knows he’ll live in that very tepee 
after a while,” returned A-chon-ho-ah. 

The last they saw of the parents of the 
bride and their helpers, they were going away 
laden with tepee poles, rolls of canvas, bed- 
ding, and various other things. The bride and 
groom stood by the dismantled spot laughing 
heartily, while the parents who had been robbed 
slunk out of sight, unable to stand the ridicule 
of the boisterous crowd gathered around. 

All the riders dismounted and accepted 
Wanda’s invitation to her parents’ tepee. It 
stood near the centre of the cluster, and was 
very tall and white and quite attractive looking. 
It was evidently almost new, and had been care- 
fully made so as to shed the rain. At the top 
there was an opening through which the smoke 
was now curling. At one side there was a loose 
bit of canvas. This was what is known as a 
windward flip. It was so arranged that it 
could at any time, by means of cords, be pulled 
into the right position so as to shut the wind 
off and keep it from blowing the smoke back 
into the tepee. At the side of the tepee there 
was another opening. This was the entrance. 
It was now fastened by a cloth like a sail-cloth 
that fell across it. 


62 How A-ckon-ho-ah ^omid the Light. 

An Indian lias neither bell nor knocker upon 
his door; neither is there any surface of a 
quality calculated to produce a sound from the 
knocks. When you approach his door of cloth 
all you have to do is to lift it and enter, head 
first, then drawing your feet after you. Be 
careful, though, that you bring the feet to a 
sitting posture the moment you get in, for if 
you do not you will soon be shedding many 
tears over the smoke that will fill your eyes. 

Our young people were soon within Watch- 
e-ca-da’s tepee, and were being made welcome 
by his wife. 

Emma liked Tonka at once. She was quite 
hospitable, and seemed intelhgent, too. She 
knew some English, having learned it from 
Wanda and from the ladies at the Agency, 
where she sometimes worked. Thus, with 
Wanda’s aid, she could talk to them very 
well. She listened intently when Emma read 
the verses in the little Testament, and explained 
them to Wanda and A-chon-ho-ah, as she had 
promised. 

There were two other squaws in the tepee and 
several children, but not one of them seemed 
to understand a word of Enghsh. 

Wanda brought her little baby brother for 
Emma to see. He was in his tall board cradle, 
with the two ends sticking out above his head 


The Missionary's Daughter. 63 

like the horns of some great animal. The buck- 
skin pouch in which the baby lay wrapped, 
covered to his chin, was beautifully embroid- 
ered with shells and beads. Many quaintly- 
contrived playthings were hung just where the 
baby could reach them. As he couldn’t get 
his hands out to enjoy a play with the alluring 
little articles, it surely was most trying to him 
to lie there and just squint at them as he was 
now doing. The horns of the cradle protrud- 
ing above the baby’s head were grotesquely 
painted with all sorts of figures. Emma noticed, 
too, with a sad feeling at her heart, that the 
baby’s eyes were painted above and below. 
Even the eyelids had been given an ornamen- 
tation in vivid green and red. She had heard 
her father say so many times how injurious this 
was. The paints were poisonous, and often 
the eyes of the child were ruined. So many 
Indian children had weak or sore eyes, and it 
had nearly all been brought about through the 
barbarous custom of painting the eyes. A few 
of the children had even gone blind. How 
Emma longed to say something to this mother 
about the danger of painting her child’s eyes 1 
But she felt it was not just the time. She did 
not know her well enough now. She would wait 
until they became better acquainted, which she 
resolved should be soon. Then she would 


64 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

endeavor kindly to so present the matter to 
her that she must see it herself. 

Emma was deeply interested in these people 
among whom her father had come to labor, and 
she had long ago resolved to help him all that 
she could. He very often carried her with him 
when he went on visits during the day to the 
camps. Thus her heart had been both pained 
and deeply stirred by what she had seen. So 
many of these poor creatures were perishing 
without the light ! Emma determined to be a 
missionary, too, so far as it was in her power. 
Her great drawback, however, was in not know- 
ing the language. This she resolved to learn ; 
hence her great desire to visit the Indian camps 
all that she could, especially with some one who 
could help her with the language. She saw a 
splendid opportunity for this through A-chon- 
ho-ah and Wanda. Ere leaving the tepee she 
spent fully a half-hour in giving the two little 
girls sentences in English, which they would 
endeavor to put first into Kiowa and then into 
Comanche. Tonka, too, would help. Thus 
they had both an interesting and a merry time, 
for of course many mistakes were made on both 
sides — A-chon-ho-ah, Wanda, and Tonka in 
translation, and Emma in pronunciation — at 
which the others, looking on and listening, 
would laugh heartily. 


CHAPTER IV. 


CAMP LIFE. 


ETER remaining at Wanda’s camp about 



r\ an hour, Emma, Glover, and A-chon-ho-ah 
rode onward toward the camp of the latter. Rut 
they did not go straight there; instead, they 
made a detour so as to round up and carry in 
the ponies. They were quite gentle ponies for 
the most part, and being hobbled were not 
hard to manage. Even Glover took an active 
part in the rounding up. 

The camp where the parents of A-chon-ho-ah 
had for the time taken up their abode was about 
two miles from the Agency. It was quite a large 
camp, one of the largest in sight on the plains. 
There were twenty or more tepees and twenty- 
five or thirty Indian families. A few of the 
tepees were new and quite attractive looking, 
but most of them were so old and worn and 
dilapidated that they seemed hardly to hold 
together. 

In one of the larger and better tepees A-chon- 
ho-ah hved. Like the tepee of Wanda, it was 
clean and well kept. The beds were made in a 
circle. All the Indians slept with their feet to 
5 65 


66 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

the fire, which was kept burning night and day 
(except when the weather was very warm) in 
a hollow scooped in the earth right in the centre 
of the tepee. The beds, which consisted princi- 
pally of shawls, skins, and blankets, were spread 
on a framework of poles bound together with 
withes of willow and elder, and having very 
much the appearance of basket-work. In one 
corner there were some chests and boxes. 
These, with the bedding and a few cooking 
utensils, completed the furnishing. An Indian 
has neither chair nor stool to offer his guest, 
as he keeps none for himself. The bed does 
twofold duty, serving as both couch and 
seat. 

As they entered the tepee a savory odor 
greeted their nostrils. It evidently came from 
a pot suspended from a cross-piece just above 
the fire. Something else was cooking upon a 
fiat rock, with a tin cover laid over it. 

Atogeer, A-chon-ho-ah’s mother, and several 
squaws were within the tepee, also quite a num- 
ber of children. There were, too, as many as a 
half-dozen dogs, either sitting around upon their 
haunches or helping themselves to a pile of beef 
that lay in a corner. One, bolder than the rest, 
had even pulled a strip down from a second 
cross-piece some distance above where the pot 
was boihng. It had been placed there so as to 


67 


Cainp Life. 

get the full benefit of the smoke as it went 
upward toward the opening in the tepee. 

As soon as Atogeer knew who her visitors 
were she greeted them cordially. Like Tonka, 
she had a little knowledge of English, but, as 
also in the case of Tonka, she had to be helped 
in making herself understood. She was taller 
and finer looking than Tonka, and had quite 
an intelhgent face. She was busily engaged in 
embroidering with beads a pair of moccasins 
as they entered. A young squaw was getting 
dinner. 

Atogeer reached out her hands at once for the 
beads that A-chon-ho-ah carried, and a smile 
broke over her face as she noticed the collection. 

‘‘Why, you have a heap more than I told 
you to bring,” she said. 

“Yes, I know,” returned A-chon-ho-ah; “but 
Mr. Fred gave them all to me for the money I 
carried.” 

“ That was good,” commented Atogeer, with 
an approving nod of the head. “Mr. Fred 
never cheats an Indian as some others do, but 
always gives them their money’s worth, and 
sometimes more.” 

She placed the beads in a little pouch she 
held in her lap ; then she arranged a place on 
the bed beside her for Emma and Glover. 

Emma noticed a little sick child in the tepee, 


68 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

and, on inquiring of A-chon-ho-ah, learned that 
it was her sister. The child was quite sick, and 
had been so for some time, though the disease 
was slow. Emma reached over, and, taking her 
hand, said a few words to her kindly, which 
A-chon-ho-ah interpreted as best she could. 
The child seemed so grateful for the attention. 
Her eyes fairly glowed as Emma, searching her 
pocket, drew out a few small pictures, which she 
placed in her hand. 

“Sister,” said Glover, after a few moments, 
leaning over towards her so as to speak in a 
low tone, “if we don’t go soon we’ll be here at 
dinner time.” 

“Well, what of that, my little man?” Emma 
asked, quizzically. 

“Oh, nothing exactly, only I don’t think it 
would be just right for us to stay.” 

“And why not, Glover?” 

“Oh, because, because — well, because I don’t 
believe they’ve got enough for all.” 

“ Oh, don’t you fear that,” she returned, with 
a smile. “I’ll venture to say they have enough, 
and more than enough.” 

“But, sister, do you reckon — do you reckon 
it is clean? ” 

She came near laughing out at this, just stop- 
ping herself in time. The look of anxious con- 
cern upon Glover’s face was just too comical! 


69 


Camp Life, 

‘‘Oh, I feel sure it is,” she answered, “in 
here, at least. Now, I shouldn’t like to try it 
in just any of the tepees, and don’t think I 
would. But I’m certain it’s all right here. 
Everything looks so. I’m confident, Glover, 
dear, we’ll not have puppy placed before us as 
our father did in one of his experiences. ^ Let 
us stay and eat, anyhow, if they ask us, which 
they’ll be sure to do. Father says nothing 
pleases the Indians more than for us to eat 
with them.” 

This conversation had been carried on in 
a low tone while A-chon-ho-ah was busy in 
another part of the tepee. 

Emma was right. The moment they made a 
movement as though to go, they were heartily 
pressed to remain and partake of the meal then 
nearly ready. A-chon-ho-ah was loudest in 
her entreaties, though her mother, too, joined 
in them cordially. 

In a half-hour or so the meal was served. It 
consisted of strips of beef nicely stewed, some 
boiled beans, dried fruit also stewed, and hoe- 
cake cooked on the stones. Emma and Glover 
had their beef in a tin plate between them. 
AU the Indians took theirs from the pot as 

* This had actually occurred to the missionary. Some 
of the Indians on the reservation still eat dog ; of course, 
they are among the wilder tribes. 


70 How A-chon-ho-ah Fotind the Light, 

they wanted it. The bread was broken into 
pieces and spread out upon a bit of oil-cloth. 

The dinner was really quite palatable, and 
both Emma and Glover enjoyed it. This seemed 
to please the Indians greatly, especially A-chon- 
ho-ah. While they were eating, an Indian came 
very hurriedly into the tepee, looked around, 
muttered a few words, and then as hastily went 
out again. 

Emma glanced inquiringly toward A-chon- 
ho-ah. The Indian’s conduct had been such 
as to quite arouse her curiosity. 

“There has a little baby been born at his 
tepee,” said A-chon-ho-ah, “ and he is looking 
around for a name for it.” 

“Looking around for a name?'' repeated 
Emma, in astonishment. 

“Yes, that is the way it is done. The father 
will go all around the camps, and whatever he 
sees that strikes him most, he will give that 
name to the baby. ^ 

“Well, he didn’t see anything in here but a 
lot of us eating dinner,” said Emma. “ He 
surely won’t call the child ‘Eating Dinner’!.” 
and she laughed. 

“ But he might,” ventured A-chon-ho-ah. 

“ Oh, that would be too funny! ” 

* This is true. The Indians hunt names for their babies 
in the manner described above. 


^ Camp Life, 71 

“They are called even stranger things than 
that.” 

So Emma was to discover. A considerable 
commotion just outside the camp now attracted 
their attention. There was a muffled, pounding 
noise, followed by groans and cries and shrieks. 
All hurried out to see what was the matter. An 
Indian had been thrown from his pony and his 
leg broken. The cries and shrieks came from 
the members of his family and friends ; the 
groans from himself. The muffled sounds were 
caused by the beating of the medicine man 
upon the tom-tom. He was doing it to drive 
away the evil spirits that were tormenting the 
crippled man. 

Among the crowd of Indians gathered was 
the father of the newly-arrived child. He 
seemed greatly interested, and stood for a few 
moments intently regarding the scene ; then 
he hurried away. In a little while they learned 
that he had decided to call the child “Ama- 
co-pha,” which means “Broken Leg.” 

A message now came to Emma. The mother, 
who had heard of her presence in the camp, 
sent to beg her to come and take the baby out 
into the sun. 

A strong belief of the Indians is, that if one 
they think is good can take the baby out into 
.the sun shortly after its birth, the sun will, 


72 How A~chon-ho-ali Found the Light. 

out of consideration for the good person, 
impart any number of good qualities to the 
baby. ^ 

This mother, it seems, had been a frequent at- 
tendant of the mission church, had seen Emma 
there from time to time, and was thoroughly 
convinced of her goodness. 

At first Emma was inclined to refuse, she 
was so embarrassed by the request. But when 
it was explained to her clearly, and she caught 
the full significance of the compliment the 
mother had paid her, her heart at once 
prompted her to comply. There was a con- 
sideration, too, that came to her with full 
weight. She might in this way help her father 
in his work ; for had not the mother’s request 
shown great confidence in the missionary and 
his family ? for, of course, the mother’s regard 
for her came through her connection with the 
dear father, whom so many of the Indians 
had grown to love and trust. So she re- 
solved to go, even though it did embarrass 
her. 

Glover was greatly amused at what his sister 
had been asked to do; but she had managed 
to whisper to him that he must not show his 
amusement, as it would doubtless hurt the feel- 
ings of the Indians ; so he managed to keep 


^ This is not in the least overdrawn. 


73 


Camp Life, 

his face very grave as he walked beside his 
sister and A-chon-ho-ah to the tepee. 

The poor httle baby’s ears had already been 
pierced and tiny rings slipped into them — two 
rings in each ear. Soft cloth had been wound 
around the little one, in strips, from its head to 
its heels ; even its arms were bound down to its 
sides. 

The mother gave the baby to Emma wrapped 
in her shawl, smiling as she did so — a happy, 
contented smile that went straight to the young 
girl’s heart. It showed how much she de- 
pended upon her for the good quahties that 
were to be imparted to her baby. 

A httle pang went to Emma’s conscience as 
she took the baby. Was she not by this act 
sanctioning a superstitious practice ? Ought 
she not to enlighten this mother and to tell 
her how fooHsh it all was ? But, then, on the 
other hand, would not her feehngs be dread- 
fully hurt? and might it not really do more 
harm than good? Then, too, it would take so 
long to explain it to her, and the probability 
was that she would not understand in the end. 
It could assuredly do no harm to take the baby 
out into the sun and hold it there a httle while. 
There was really nothing wrong in the act itself ; 
it was only that she seemed to sanction a super- 
stitious practice. Afterwards she could explain 


74 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

by degrees to the mother how she only did 
this to please her, and that no real good could 
come to the baby after all. She knew the 
woman came now and then to church. She 
would make it a point to talk to her whenever 
she could. Now she seemed so happy over 
the baby, and so dehghted that it was to be 
taken out into the sun by the good missionary’s 
daughter, that Emma had not the heart either to 
refuse or to throw cold water upon the mother’s 
ardor. So she lifted the baby gently and care- 
fully and bore it out of the tepee. There she 
kept it in the sun, either sitting down or 
walking about with it, for fully ten or fifteen 
minutes. 

Glover kept close beside her, ready to laugh 
at any moment, yet doing his best to keep his 
face straight. He really admired the baby, 
which was a fine, bright-looking child, and 
even offered to take it once when his sister’s 
arms seemed a httle tired. But she thought 
it best not to give it to him. The mother 
had entrusted it to her so implicitly, and there 
were the other Indians looking on! A num- 
ber had followed her from the tepee, while 
a crowd had also collected about her as she 
came out of doors. 

When Emma took the baby back into the 
tepee he was straightway put into his buckskin 


75 


Cainp Life, 

box cradle. This cradle was similar to the one 
at TV^anda’s tent. It was shaped just like the 
shpper watch-cases you have seen, only, instead 
of the round heel, there were the long horns 
sticking upward. At the toe of the shpper, or 
rather from the instep down to the toe, was 
baby’s buckskin pouch. As soon as baby was 
placed in this pouch he was laced up, just as 
we lace a shoe, until only his face was to be 
seen. Henceforth, until able to go on his own 
feet, this was the way baby would be carried — 
in this cradle strapped to his mother’s back. He 
would never know the luxury of being carried in 
her arms. How bad to be an Indian baby ! 

The mother smiled again, and gave emphatic 
expression to her thanks as Emma returned the 
baby. How the young girl longed to talk to her 
then, but A-chon-ho-ah was urging her to return 
to their tepee. She was so anxious to have her 
read in the little book to them. She wanted her 
mother especially to hear it, and she hoped, too, 
that her father would be there by this time. 

When they returned to A-chon-ho-ah’s tepee 
they found the medicine man there. He had 
come to see the little sick girl. Ton-ke-a-bau 
had doubtless sent him. He was down over 
the child and blowing his breath into her face. 
He would do this a while and then toss his 
hands upward as though he were tossing the 


76 IIow A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

breath with them. This he did so as to entice 
away the bad spirit of which he declared the 
child was possessed. 

When he had done this a number of times he 
leaned still further over the child, and, placing 
his mouth to hers, pretended to draw with all 
his might by means of his breath. In a few 
moments he triumphantly brought a piece of 
plaited hair to view, which he declared he had 
drawn from her heart. 

Emma was disgusted, and outraged, too. How 
she longed to expose the medicine man and his 
shameless tricks ! But she dared not say any- 
thing, at least not while he was present, for 
fear of a disturbance. Indeed, she well knew 
how jealous these medicine men were of their 
reputation, and how they would not brook in- 
terference even from the family of the sick per- 
son. She had heard her father say so again 
and again. He was always very careful himself 
not to get into a disturbance with them. She 
recognized also how deep were the shadows 
of darkness and superstition enveloping these 
people. Even should she make the attempt to 
make clear to them the trickery practiced by 
the medicine man, would they believe her ? No ; 
evidently not. Their faith in him was too great. 
Her best course, then, was to keep perfectly still 
while the medicine man was present. When he 


Camp Life, 


77 


had gone away, then she conld talk to them, 
and, maybe, in a kind, gentle way could say 
something that would open their ey^s, in part, 
at least. She also resolved that she would read 
the verses in the Testament which A-chon-ho-ah 
was entreating her to read. She would try to 
make as much clear to their darkened minds as 
it was in her power to do in the space of time 
at her command. 

After making some horrid noises, both with 
his own voice and by means of some rattle- 
gourds he carried, the medicine man arose to 
go away. He was a most forbidding-looking 
object, enough in himself to frighten the child 
even without his horrible mummery. He was 
entirely nude, with the exception of a waist- 
cloth and a blanket fastened about his neck 
and shoulders, which hung down his back like 
a mantle. His face, breast, and arms were 
smeared with paint in the most hideous pat- 
terns. His eyebrows were long and bristling 
and dyed a brilliant red, with spots of blue and 
yellow above them. His hair, into which otter 
tails had been plaited, hung far below his waist. 
At the top of his head was a cluster of eagle 
feathers. As he passed by Emma and Glover 
on his way out, he gave them a scowl that 
made poor Glover's heart almost sink out of 
his body, and considerably disconcerted Emma. 


78 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light 

That was doubtless exactly what he intended 
to do. 

“He is 'a horrid-looking man,” Emma said 
to A-chon-ho-ah. “Do you think he can do 
your little sister any good ? ” 

“He has not so far. It seems really that 
she gets worse instead of better, my poor little 
Narva!” and A-chon-ho-ah took the hand of 
her little sister in hers, stroking it tenderly. 

It was very hot, and the child’s face, too, was 
flushed with the fever. 

“ If you will get me some nice fresh water I 
will bathe her face,” said Emma. “Then I 
think she will feel better.” 

It did seem to revive the child wonderfully, 
and Narva showed her gratitude to Emma by 
the expression on her face as she now and 
then raised her eyes to Emma’s. They were 
very sad eyes for a child, and they pained 
Emma deeply. 

“How old is she? and how long has she 
been sick?” she asked A-chon-ho-ah. 

“She is eight, and she has been sick nearly 
three years.” 

“Poor little thing! Tell her how sorry I 
am. But I think she knows. She can see 
that by the way I am looking at her.” 

The child smiled, and, raising her hand, 
placed the fingers for a moment over the 


Camjp Life, 79 

gentle white ones that were stroking her fore- 
head. 

“ Tell her of Dau-ka-ye,” said A-chon-ho-ah, 
suddenly and softly. 

Emma started and a thrill went to her heart. 
It was strange, but she was just thinking of 
that herself. 

“I will, A-chon-ho-ah; I will tell her in the 
simplest words I can, and you, too, must try to 
make it clear.” 

‘‘Dau-ka-ye, Narva,” Emma continued, turn- 
ing to the child and taking the little hot hand 
in hers, “ Dau-ka-ye is some one who is very, 
very good, some one who loves you dearly. 
His home is in the sky, away up beyond the 
beautiful blue you see, and, oh! how lovely 
this home is — lovelier than anything I can 
describe. There not only Dau-ka-ye lives, but 
also Dom-man-yom-kee, his Father. 

“Once, a long, long while ago, Dau-ka-ye 
came to this earth — came to tell the people of 
this home in the sky, and how they might reach 
it if only they would believe in him and in Dom- 
man-yom-kee, the Father.” 

“And did they believe?” asked the child, 
eagerly. 

“A few did, but many, many did not. In- 
stead of believing, these made fun of him ; and 
not only that, but they treated him cruelly, very 


80 How A-chon-ho-ah Foxind the Light. 

cruelly. They spat upon him, and struck him, 
and pierced his head with thorns; but, most 
terrible of all, they even put him to death.” 

‘‘Oh! how could they have done that?” cried 
Narva, her eyes swimming in tears. 

“Because they were mean and cruel, and be- 
cause they did not believe that he was really 
Dau-ka-ye, the Son of God. You see, he had 
even come to save them. Dom-man-yom-kee 
was very angry with the people then living in 
the world, because they had not kept his laws, 
nor lived as he had told them. At first he was 
so angry that he felt that he must put them to 
death. But, though he was angry, he loved 
them, too. He determined that he would first 
give them a chance — a chance to do better ; so 
he sent his only Son to die for them. And he 
made it so that whosoever believed in this Son, 
this dear, precious Dau-ka-ye of whom I have 
told you, should not perish in their sins, but be 
taken to his home in heaven to live forever.” 

Emma was now conscious that she had other 
auditors besides A-chon-ho-ah and the sick 
child. Atogeer had drawn nearer, and was lis- 
tening eagerly ; so, also, were two of the squaws. 
With a fervent prayer to the dear Father in 
heaven for help and guidance, she went on 
with the story: 

“Dau-ka-ye came, as I have said, and a few 


81 


Camp Life. 

received him ; but many did not. He lived in 
the world a number of years, doing, oh! so 
much good 1 Then he was cruelly put to death. 
But he was Dau-ka-ye, the All-powerful, the 
Mighty, the Son of God, and so he had power 
even over death. When he had been in the 
grave three days, he burst the bonds of the 
grave and came forth again. Then he went up 
through the clouds, in the sight of many, up 
again to his home in heaven ; and there he is 
now, looking down upon the earth, and seeing 
all that takes place here. And he is still our 
Saviour, ready to hear us when we call upon 
him, and to forgive us when we have done 
wrong. And, oh! how he does love for us to 
be good, and to try to serve him and to walk in 
the way he has made plain to us!” 

‘‘This is all very wonderful!” 

It was Atogeer’s voice that spoke, and it sent 
a thrill of gladness to Emma’s heart to see the 
expression of deep interest in her eyes. 

“ It is wonderful, but it is true. Dau-ka-ye 
is the Son of God. He has been to earth, but 
is now in heaven. He even died, but is yet 
alive again, as all shall be who fully put their 
trust in him.” 

“And does he really love one so small and 
weak as Narva?” the child asked, hesitantly. 
Then her eyes fairly glowed, as she concluded • 
6 


82 How A-chon-ho-ah Fo\md the Light. 

“Oh! do you really, really think that Dau- 
ka-ye knows of Narva?” 

“Yes, Narva, that I do; nay, more, I am sure 
of it. He loves the little ones especially. Oh ! 
how he does love them ! When he was here on 
earth he took many of them up into his arms 
and blessed them.” 

“Oh! how good that was! How Narva would 
like to see him ! ” 

“Only be good, Narva, and try to live as 
nearly like him as you can — being pure, and 
gentle, and patient — and some day you will 
see him; maybe sooner than you think,” she 
added under her breath, as she noted again 
how weak and thin the child really was. 

“Will you not read again the verses in the 
little Testament?” A-chon-ho-ah now asked 
her. “I want so much to understand about 
the light. That puzzles me very much. How 
are we to get this light? Did Dau-ka-ye leave 
it in any place where we can go and get it? ” 

“Dau-ka-ye is himself the hght,” Emma re- 
plied. “It is from him that the light shines 
into our hearts. I will read you what it says.” 

Taking the little Testament that her father 
had marked, Emma read slowly and carefully 
from the first verse through the fourteenth, 
dwelling particularly upon the fourth : “/ri him 
was life ; and the life was the light of menL 


83 


Camp Life, 

“It all still puzzles me very much,” declared 
A-chon-ho-ah. “ If the light is in Dau-ka-ye, 
and Dau-ka-ye has gone back to heaven, then 
how are we to get the light unless we go there 
to get it ? You say that we may have it in this 
world if only we will seek it. It certainly is 
very strange ; yes, quite strange.” 

“No, A-chon-ho-ah, it is not strange. It is 
all very clear. Oh, how I wish I could make 
you see it! But if I cannot, my father can. 
Will you not come to him and let him do so ? 
However, I will try my best to make it plain. 

“You will notice in this verse that I have 
twice read over to you, that it says it is the life 
that is in him that is the light of men. It is 
the life in the tree, which it gets from the earth 
and the sun, that makes it beautiful with fruit. 
So we must know Christ and dwell in him, and 
draw from him that life which is to make our 
way so full of light, so sweet and bright and 
joyous.” 

But still poor A-chon-ho-ah shook her head 
in perplexity. Despite Emma’s earnest effort, 
she was as much in the dark as ever. How 
forcefully true it was in this case, as of so many 
others in the time when our Saviour came and 
of whom it was said: “The light shineth in 
darkness : and the darkness comprehended it 
not.” 


84 How A-chon-ho-ah Fo^ind the Light, 

“How can I find Dan-ka-ye and the light if 
he is not here, not in this world?” cried poor 
A-chon-ho-ah again, still feeling her way pa- 
thetically in the dark. “ Oh, I do want to find 
him so much ! ” 

How that cry went to Emma’s heart, stirring 
it to its depths. Oh, if she could but kindle 
even one little ray of light in this darkened, 
groping mind! She would make one more 
earnest effort, and how fervently she prayed 
to God to help her! 

“ You do not have to see Dau-ka-ye, A-chon- 
ho-ah, to receive this light from him, but only 
to know him ; to feel in your heart that there 
is indeed such a one, and that he loves you 
and cares for you. When you can feel this 
way, that he is really your Saviour, that he 
came to die for you, and that he has gone to 
prepare a beautiful home in which you are to 
live with him, and that he can raise you to life 
again, even out of the grave, oh, how happy 
it will make you! It will make you so very, 
very happy indeed, that all the way will be 
bright before you, and it will seem as though a 
light really shone about you,” 

Here Ton-ke-a-bau came in, and, after a 
hasty nod to the missionary’s children, said to 
Atogeer : “The child of your friend Nau-war-na 
is dying, and she wants you to come.” 


85 


Camp Life, 

Atogeer got up at once to make ready. 

“ Come with me,” she said to A-chon-ho-ah, 
“ and ask them to come, too,” nodding toward 
Emma and Glover. 

“ Oh, I don’t know whether we can or not,” 
Emma said, when A-chon-ho-ah asked her. 

“Oh, sister, yes; do let’s go,” entreated 
Glover. 

“But I’m afraid it will be a dreadful sight 
for us,” returned Emma, still hesitating. “Fa- 
ther says it is at such times.” 

“ But I think he’d want us to go,” persisted 
Glover. “You know he wants us to see all we 
can about the Hves of the Indians.” 

“How far is it?” Emma turned to ask of 
A-chon-ho-ah. 

“About a mile and a half.” 

“Well, I guess we can go,” this to Glover; 
“ but we must not stay very long, and we must 
go straight home from the camp.” 

“All right, sister,” he returned, readily. 


CHAPTEE V. 

CAMP LIFE. — Continued. 

L ong ere they reached the camp — indeed, 
while they were yet fully a mile away — 
they could hear the howling of the squaws ; so 
they knew that the child was dead. 

Atogeer urged her pony to a faster trot, and 
the others followed her example. If she did 
not hurry, she would be unable to render her 
poor friend any assistance. 

The howling of the squaws grew louder, and 
more and more dreadful, the nearer, they drew 
to the camp. It seemed to Emma as though all 
the wild animals on the reservation had congre- 
gated together, and were endeavoring to make 
the day as hideous as possible with their voices. 
It was, indeed, an awful din, for, in addition to 
the piercing howls of the squaws, there was the 
beating of all manner of rudely improvised 
tom-toms,^ the shrill screeching of reed whis- 
tles, and the ringing of bells; but, above aU, 
the wild, wolfish cries of the squaws — impos- 
sible to describe, and as impossible to forget 


* A tom-tom is an Indian drum. 
86 


87 


Camp Life. 

when once heard — rang out with distinctness. 
Several times Emma felt the inclination to 
cover her ears with her hands, but she was 
afraid of hurting the feelings of Atogeer and 
A-chon-ho-ah. She knew it was their way, the 
manner of these wild Indian tribes in mourn- 
ing their dead, and so she refrained. 

Crowds of Indians were hastening towards 
the camp from every direction, attracted thither 
by the noise, the nature of which they fuUy 
understood. Now would be the time to show 
their regard for the afflicted family by raising 
their voices in as loud a strain of grief as pos- 
sible ; the louder the strain, the deeper the 
grief. So each crowd that arrived but added 
afresh to the noise. 

*‘I think they must have a cow or two to 
help them,” said Glover, in an undertone, to 
Emma. “Why, just listen to the bellowing, 
sister ! ” 

“ That is from people, Glover, and not from 
animals. Be careful now, my httle brother, not 
to say anything that will hurt their feelings. 
Bemember, our father wants us to make friends 
with them.” 

“Oh, sister, I wouldn’t do such a thing as 
that for a good deal!” and Glover gave her a 
look of mild reproach. 

“Yes, I know you wouldn’t if you stopped to 


88 Ho%o A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light 

think. I was only cautioning you. Sometimes 
you speak out impulsively, you know. I ” 

Whatever else she was going to say was sud- 
denly interrupted by a quick exclamation from 
Glover; “Oh! if yonder isn’t Brother Andres!” 

Yes, there he was, sure enough, approaching 
them from the right. 

“I’m so glad to see you,” said Emma, as she 
gave him a bright smile. “Are you going to 
the camp ? ” pointing towards it as she spoke. 

“Yes; I heard of the death just a few mo- 
ments ago, while at Unkama’s tepee, and I 
thought I would ride over. I want to be pre- 
sent on such occasions, if I can, so as to say 
something that may show one or two of the In- 
dians, at least, how horrible these customs and 
practices really are.” 

“Oh! I’m so glad that you are going. Now 
I shall not feel anything hke so badly or so 
strangely, knowing you are near. How long 
since you left the mission-house ? ” she asked, 
in conclusion. 

“Only about an hour or so ago. I took din- 
ner there.” 

“They were not uneasy about us, were they?” 

“Yes, your mother was a little, but your fa- 
ther said he felt sure that you would stay in 
the camps until afternoon ; that he had, indeed, 
so advised you, should any of the Indians ask 


89 


Camp Life. 

you to remain to dinner. He added that he 
had almost the assurance that this would be 
the case, as he had seen you overtake two little 
Indian girls with whom you had recently be- 
come acquainted, and who, he could see plainly, 
had taken quite a liking to you.” 

“That is just like father,” said Emma, with a 
becoming little blush, “ to think people are al- 
ways taking a hking to me. I suppose he sees 
for them through his own eyes, bless his dear, 
precious, partial, old bones!” and here she 
stopped, for she hadn’t another adjective in 
her vocabulary to express one whit more em- 
phatically what she felt. 

“No,” said Andres, positively, “I feel sure 
he doesn’t give a single look for them. They 
see through their own eyes, and they see quite 
clearly, too.” 

“My mother says you are quite neat at pay- 
ing compliments. Brother Andres, and now I 
know it,” and somehow as she said these words 
Emma blushed again. 

Andres smiled and rode forward to greet 
Atogeer and A-chon-ho-ah. By this time they 
had reached the enclosure around the camp. 
Some men were hurrying away with a bundle 
in a wagon that looked like a bale of goods. 
Emma had an idea what it was ere Andres, 
who had returned to her side, gave her the 


90 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

assurance. She had heard her father so often 
describe the Indian mode of burial — how that 
the body was hurried off to the grave the mo- 
ment the breath had left it; how, too, it was 
hastily and rudely bundled in the bedding on 
which it had died. Emma had seen one Indian 
corpse carried to its burial. It was that of the 
sister of Stumbling Bear, the Kiowa chief, who 
had died about a year before. The custom was 
to place around the body not only the bedding 
on which the person had died, but also all the 
bedding of which he or she died possessed. 
Now, Stumbling Bear’s sister had been quite a 
well-to-do Indian; hence, when she died and 
all her bed-clothing was wrapped around her, 
it made a bale so large that it could hardly be 
placed in the body of a two-horse wagon. ^ As 
it had been brought through the Agency, Emma 
had seen it. So Emma knew well enough what 
was in the bundle going out of the enclosure ; 
so, also, did she know what was to be the fate 
of the poor, pretty little pony led behind the 
wagon. When the grave was reached it would 
be killed and its body left upon the mound. 
It was through doing this that it could be sent 
to join the child in the land to which he had 
gone. Thus held the Indian in his savage creed. 

As long as the bundle was in sight the squaws 


This is real. 


91 


Cam^ Life. 

kept up their terrible howling ; so, also, did the 
drum-beaters and the bell-ringers the terrible 
din they were making. The loudest noises 
came from the tepee whence the child had 
just been borne. Mingled with them were the 
mother’s piercing cries and wild shrieks of grief. 

Going into the tepee a sight met their eyes 
that was so horrible that it turned Emma sick 
and faint — so much so that she almost imme- 
diately withdrew, taking Glover with her. 

The grandmother, mother, and sisters of the 
dead boy were not only screaming and shriek- 
ing at the top of their voices, but they were 
also cutting and slashing their faces, necks, 
and breasts with sharp knives which others of 
the squaws had prepared and handed to them. 
They held the knives close to the point, so as to 
keep them from going in too deep and severing 
an artery. But, despite this, they accomplished 
the work of slashing so effectively that the blood 
was streaming in torrents. As the poor mother 
sank down thoroughly exhausted with grief and 
weak from the loss of blood, one of the squaws 
caught her right hand, and while she held it 
with the forefinger extended, another one de- 
liberately chopped it off with a small cleaver 
she held. * 

' These barbarous customs are still carried out, as fully 
as described, by the women of the wild tribes now on the 
Reservation. 


92 How A~chon-ho~ah Found the Light, 

Emma did not wait for Atogeer and A-chon- 
ho-ali. She knew they would be in the tepee 
quite a while, since custom demanded that they 
remain there until the squaws of the bereaved 
family, both young and old, had gone through 
the different forms of mourning prescribed for 
each. So she sent Andres in to tell them that 
she felt she must return home, and to say good- 
bye for her. He was glad to have the oppor- 
tunity, as he hoped the way might be opened 
to speak some auspicious word. 

A-chon-ho-ah came quickly from the tepee. 
She was so sorry Emma was going. She tried 
to prevail upon her to remain longer. ‘‘I’m 
afraid it has been quite dreadful for you,” she 
said, with much solicitude, as she noticed 
Emma’s pale face, and the hands that would 
tremble slightly in spite of her. 

“It has been dreadful,” Emma admitted, 
frankly, “and it is still dreadful to hear those 
cries and to know what is going on. My little 
brother is frightened, too, though he will not 
admit it,” putting her arm around him as she 
spoke, and drawing him to her. “ So I think it 
is best to go home.” 

A-chon-ho-ah approached her and looked at 
her wistfully. Then she said: “What is it 
that makes it so dreadful to you? Is it so 
unhke the way your people do?” 


93 


Camp Life, 

‘‘Yes, A-chon-ho-ah, it is very unlike; nay, 
it is altogether unlike.” 

“Do not your people mourn for their loved 
ones when they die?” asked A-chon-ho-ah, 
suddenly. 

“Yes, A-chon-ho-ah, they do; they mourn 
deeply and sincerely, but not in this way: 
They do not cut themselves, or seek to do 
themselves any harm. They know that this 
could not do the dead loved one any good.” 

“Oh, I should think they did not love the 
dead ones much if they did not do that,” as- 
serted A-chon-ho-ah. 

“ There you are mistaken, A-chon-ho-ah. 
Among our people it is often the case that the 
heart that feels the grief the most keenly takes 
it in the stillest way. Listen to those squaws 
now,” she broke off somewhat abruptly. 
“Hear them howling! Why are they doing 
that? Some of them doubtless never saw the 
boy before to remember him. Why! their 
cries almost drown those of the mother and of 
the others related to him. Why do they make 
such a noise ? ” 

“ Oh ! they do that to get the presents,” said 
A-chon-ho-ah, quickly. 

“ The presents ? ” repeated Emma. 

“Yes; there will be presents given to all 
those who mourn the loudest. There will be 


94 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

one present better than all given to the one 
that holds out the longest.” ^ 

‘‘Oh, then,” cried Emma, “it is all bought 
mourning ! Oh, how dreadful to think of that ! 
Now, the poor mother and the grandmother 
and the sisters, I know, are grieved, and their 
cries are genuine. But all these noisy, howling 
squaws! To think they are keeping up these 
noises because they expect to get paid for it 1 
Oh, A-chon-ho-ah, how bad it all is 1 How much 
better it would be if, instead of standing out 
there and howling in that way without any real 
meaning in it, they could go into the tepee and 
put their arms around the poor mother and 
tell her how sorry they are, and beg her not to 
mourn any longer as she is doing, but to take 
to her heart the sweet hope of meeting her boy 
again in the land to which he has gone. And, 
oh, if the poor mother could have been kept from 
cutting herself ! How dreadful it is 1 ” 
A-chon-ho-ah’s lips quivered. There were 
some words Emma had just said that touched 
her very much. They were those about the 
squaws going into the tepee and putting their 
arms around the mother and telling her how 
sorry they were, and begging her to have the 
sweet hope in her heart of meeting her boy 
again. How beautiful it was I Oh, if they 


' This is the actual custom. 


95 


- Camp Life. 

would only do it! Was that the way the white 
people did? she wondered. Of course it was, 
or Emma would not have mentioned it. She 
would ask her all about it. But just as she 
was on the point of beginning to do so, Mr. 
Andres came from the tepee and spoke to 
Emma, telling her that he was now ready to 
accompany her home. 

“Good-bye, A-chon-ho-ah,” Emma said, 
warmly grasping her hand. “You must be 
sure to come to the mission -house ; yes, and 
to the church, too. I want you to know my 
dear father and mother. You have seen my 
dear father, but that was only a little bit. I 
want you to know him better, and let him talk 
to you. Oh, he can make so many of the 
things clear that I cannot!” 

“Can he tell me how to find the light that 
Dau-ka-ye has brought?” A-chon-ho-ah asked, 
.softly. 

“Yes, A-chon-ho-ah, that he can.” 

“Then A-chon-ho-ah will come. She will 
ask her father to let her come. She will tell 
him how good the missionary is, and how he 
wants to be a friend to all the people.” 

“Yes, A-chon-ho-ah, that he does; and my 
father is a friend to them,” she added, warmly. 

“ That he is,” declared Mr. Andres, who over- 
heard the remark, “the best they’ve ever had 


96 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

out here. I wish they could realize just what 
he is trying to do for them. But come to the 
church, my little girl, and to the house, too, 
and let him talk to you as only he can talk.” 

“I will, Mr. Andres, if I can.” 

“I’ll certainly keep my promise about com- 
ing to the camp to see your father,” Andres 
said, as he was turning away, “ and I’ll ask the 
missionary to go, too. But, in the meantime, 
you must come to the house and to the church, 
for he is very, very busy, and it may be many 
days ere he can get away to make the visit to 
your camp.” 

“I will surely come if my father will let me,” 
was the assurance A-chon-ho-ah gave them as 
they walked away. Mounting their ponies, 
they turned them in the direction of the mis- 
sion-house. 

“That was a trying experience for you,” An- 
dres said to Emma, as they rode away. 

“Yes, indeed, it was. I had no idea it was 
so dreadful, though I have heard my father 
tell of similar things before.” 

“This was one case in which the seeing was 
many times worse than the hearing,” said An- 
dres, again. 

“That it was. I felt as though I should 
surely faint, and I beheve I would have done 
so if I had not quickly gotten out of the tepee. 


Ca7np Life. 97 

I felt alarmed for Glover, too. I could see he 
was frightened.” 

“ I was frightened,” admitted Glover, frankly. 
“ Oh ! the blood was horrible ! ” 

“You know he is dehcate,” Emma said, in a 
lower tone, so that only Andres heard, “ and we 
try to be careful with him. I am so sorry he 
saw that awful sight.” 

“You need not be uneasy. I feel sure it has 
had no very bad effect upon him save to frighten 
him a httle. He seems all right now. You did 
the best thing to get him out of the tepee at 
once.” 

“Oh! what makes them do this awful way!” 
Emma could not refrain from exclaiming. 

“Because they are savages, and know no 
better.” 

“We must teach them better,” she said, de- 
terminedly. 

“That we will. Your father is given over, 
heart and soul, to that determination ; so am 
I,” and his eyes shone with a radiant light. 
“Now we have the third worker in our mis- 
sionary band.” 

“You have h 9 ,d that all along, only,” she ad- 
mitted, a httle shame-facedly, “I have not been 
the zealous worker I ought to have been. I 
see now where I have left undone many things 
I might have done, and let slip many oppor- 
7 


98 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

tunities. I shall be careless of these no more. 
‘Instant in season and out of season’ — that 
shall be my motto henceforth. I will come of- 
tener to the camps.” 

“But that might not always be safe,” he in- 
terrupted her. 

“ Oh, I will be prudent,” she returned. “My 
father will see to that. Sometimes John can 
go with me, and sometimes Unkama, the dear, 
good woman we all love so much.” 

“And sometimes I can accompany you, if 
you would hke me to do so.” 

“Oh! Brother Andres, that would be truly 
good of you 1 I should like that very much.” 

“Not good at all,” he declared, “but simply 
a pleasure and a duty.” 

“And of course I’ll go with my father when- 
ever he’ll let me,” added Emma. 

They were now in sight of the mission-house. 
As they came near to a small cluster of tepees, 
Andres said to Emma : “ There is an old woman 
in here that I want to see very much. I think 
you would like to know her, too. She is very 
interesting, though so old and poor, and such 
a pitiful object. She is most inhumanly treat- 
ed by those in the tepee with her, though they 
are her own flesh and blood. You have doubt- 
less heard your father tell how cruel the In- 
dians are to the aged, especially to the aged 


Camp Life. 99 

squaws ; and you may have seen something of 
it yourself.” 

“Yes, I have both heard my father tell of it 
and have seen it,” answered Emma. “Now 
and then while riding I have come upon an 
old squaw, who was searching about the prai- 
ries for the offals of the cows that had been 
butchered. Twice I saw one eating them. 
Oh, it was horrible!” and she closed her eyes 
for a moment as though to shut out the pic- 
ture. 

“Yes, indeed, it must have been for you. 
But I have seen the sight often. Still, I have 
not grown used to it. Every time I see it it 
makes my heart sick. Again and again I have 
remonstrated with such of the Indians as I 
know, but it seems to do httle, if any, good 
This terrible custom of being cruel to the aged 
is still kept up among them. But here we are 
at the tepee. Will you not dismount and go 
in for a httle while? The old woman will be 
so glad to see you.” 

The tepee presented a wretched appearance. 
There seemed to be an abundance of such 
domestic furnishing as the Indian needed 
inside, but everything was so filthy and ill 
kept. Pots, and pans, and kettles, and bed- 
ding, and dogs, and people seemed all jumbled 
together in one uninviting array. In a corner 


100 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

lay the old woman to whom Andres had 
alluded. Her face was seamed and wrinkled 
till it scarcely looked like a face at all, but 
from the midst of it her round, little black 
eyes shone with a piercing light. She had 
nothing between her and the ground but a 
little straw and an old half-worn blanket. 
Another blanket almost as tattered looking 
covered her. form. Had it been cold weather 
she certainly would have been suffering from 
it, and intensely. As it was, her poor old 
bones must have had a hard time so near the 
ground. Her eyes fairly glowed as our friends 
entered the tepee and she caught sight of 
Andres. She held out both hands to Andres, 
speaking forth her pleasure in shrill, almost 
piercing tones. Instantly one of the squaws, 
who was near, scowled upon her and signalled 
to her to be quiet. Andres sat down upon the 
hard pallet, and, taking one of her hands in 
his, began to talk to her. Oh, how sweet and 
gentle were his tones! thought Emma, who 
was listening intently, and how pleased and 
grateful the old woman seemed at his notice ! 
Actually the poor creature’s eyes were swim- 
ming in tears. He was saying such precious 
words to her. Emma could hear a sentence 
now and then. In these sentences were the 
words “Tah-ap-pa” and “ Tah-ap-pa-to-na.” 


101 


Camp Life. 

The woman was a Comanche, and these words 
in her language meant God and Son of God. 
In a few moments Andres beckoned to Emma. 
She moved nearer and bent downward close to 
the old woman, taking her hand and pressing 
it gently, while Andres told her who Emma 
was. Again the old woman’s shrill, piercing 
tones rang out, and again the squaw strove to 
silence her, this time by flinging a bone toward 
her, on which there was a little raw meat. 
The old creature seized it quickly, and placed 
it ravenously between her teeth. 

‘‘Oh!” said Emma, the tears springing to her 
eyes, “ I must come back this very evening and 
bring her something to eat. I will &,sk J ohn to 
come with me.” 

“Do so,” said Andres; “but be careful not 
to bring too much, as, should she over-eat, it 
would be dangerous. And be sure,” he con- 
cluded, “ that she gets it before you leave.” 

“ That I will,” declared Emma. 

She now addressed herself to the old woman, 
and, with the help of Andres, carried on quite 
a conversation with her. To her surprise, she 
found the old woman could talk quite intelli- 
gently. Though old and feeble, her mind was 
still clear. She had been once or twice to the 
church, and she had heard the good missionary 
preach. One time he had talked to her direct. 


102 IIow A’Chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

The remembrance of that talk had never faded. 
It was as vivid now as the hour when it had 
occurred, though more than three years had 
gone by. But, alas ! she could now go to the 
church no longer. Her legs had grown stiff, 
and they refused to carry her. She could only 
crawl now, and that for a short distance. She 
could not even go in search of the refuse from 
the butchering, that had once been a part of 
her living. Hence she was starving all the 
time.^ 

When Emma heard these things her heart 
was torn with many emotions : sorrow, pity for 
the old woman, indignation for those who thus 
let her suffer, and keen regret that she could 
not daily minister to the old woman’s needs. 
But she knew this to be impossible. There 
were so many cases of this kind, doubtless. 
Should it be known that she had taken this one 
in hand, the number would multiply so rapidly 
that she would be quite overwhelmed by them. 
Another drawback was the slender larder at 
home. So many applicants went there that 
what little there was to give was soon taken 
away. Still, she resolved to do what she could. 
This certainly was a touching case. 

As Emma talked to the old woman, saying 
all the comforting things of which she could 


' This picture is not in the least overdrawn. 


103 


Camp Life. 

think, she noticed that she had a fresh cut 
upon one of her arms. The wound was wide 
open and still bleeding. As it was more than 
an inch long, it was surely painful. In one 
pocket of the little purse she carried, Emma 
had a bit of sticking plaster. She thought of 
it now, and it suggested something she might 
do for the old woman. She opened her purse, 
took out the plaster, then a little pair of pocket 
scissors. Clipping off a piece a little larger 
than the wound, she quickly dampened it, and, 
picking up the old woman’s arm, pressed the 
lips of the wound together and gently applied 
the plaster. The old creature’s eyes glowed 
gratefully and she murmured her thanks, not 
daring to raise her voice this time for fear of 
the squaw who had threatened her and who 
had thrown the bone at her. 

Some bucks ^ now came into the tepee, and 
as they were noisy and scowled upon the • 
visitors, even going so far as to toss a stick 
or two of wood toward the old woman, An- 
dres motioned to Emma that they would with- 
draw. 

“I recognized two of those men,” he said to 
Emma, as soon as they were mounted and were 
riding away. “Your father had quite an ex- 
perience with them a month or so ago. They, 


^ The name for the Indian men. 


104 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

with three others, came to him and begged him 
to go with them to the Agent, so as to prevail 
upon him to give them five or six old worn-out 
milles the Government had turned into the pas- 
ture lands to graze, as they were pronounced 
no longer fit for active service. Your father 
did not think to inquire of the Indians the pur- 
pose for which they desired the mules. He 
naturally supposed they wanted them for some 
light agricultural usage. The Agent was on the 
point of giving them the mules. He, too, was 
unsuspecting. But a sudden thought came to 
him. He would ask their purpose ere granting 
their request. Imagine his horror and that of 
your father when the Indians admitted that 
they wanted these old broken-down animals so 
as to kill them and feed the meat to the aged.” ^ 

‘‘ Of course, he didn’t grant the request,” said 
Emma, indignantly. 

“That he didn’t! Instead, he gave them a 
piece of his mind and dismissed them without 
further ceremony.” 

“I suppose this poor old creature we have 
just left was one of those to be fed with the 
mule meat ? ” 

“Yes, beyond a doubt; and, judging from 
her appearance, I think she would have wel- 
comed it gladly, provided that she could have 


^ This actually occurred at Anadarko. 


Camp Life. 105 

made any headway chewing it, which is doubt- 
ful.” 

“Oh! the poor, miserable old creature! How 
I do wish I could give her all she wanted to 
eat every day ! 

“That would be a dangerous experiment. 
Miss Emma. She has gone so long unfed that 
she would not know how to control herself. 
One meal, such as she would doubtless eat if 
she had it, might kill her. So be careful how 
much you carry her. You had better ask your 
father about it.” 

“I will, Mr. Andres. Oh! what does make 
the Indians treat their aged people so?” she 
concluded, with a little sigh. 

“It is a part of their savage, brutal nature to 
be mean to the weak and helpless, I suppose. 
Besides, when the squaws get too old to work, 
they are considered of no more good, and are 
heartily wished out of the way ; more, are tor- 
mented until many of them are actually driven 
out of life.” 

“ Oh ! this is dreadful ! ” 

“Yes, dreadful, but true, nevertheless. One 
of the first things your father and myself en- 
deavor to teach the Indian children who come 
to the Sunday-school, as you have doubtless 
observed, is the full force of the fifth com- 
mandment. We try to impress upon them the 


106 How A-chon-ho-ak Found the Light. 

duty of being kind to their parents and grand- 
parents. We tell them that if they are thought- 
ful of their aged people, then, when they, too, 
are old, their children will follow their example 
and be thoughtful of them.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

A LITTLE RA Y FROM THE LIGHT. 

HE next day was Sunday. The sun came 



1 up clear and beautiful. All the prairies 
round were glowing with its radiance. Every 
blade of grass seemed to catch and reflect the 
sparkling Hght as though tipped with a diamond. 
The many brilhant wild flowers made patches 
of vivid coloring along the ground. Here and 
there in the hollows the grass shone with a 
more velvety greenness. The blue of the wild 
sage was not bluer than the deep blue of the 
sky that arched so smilingly above. The sway- 
ing syngenesia shot rays of glowing light from 
its golden spearlike fronds. Everywhere was 
brightness and color and beauty. The river, 
too, contributed its share of attractiveness to 
the picture, for where it wound there was a 
line of deep and vivid green, dashed here and 
there with threads of scarlet and gold, where 
the many luxuriant vines twisted themselves in 
picturesque shape about the trees. 

All the plains, as far as the eye could reach, 
were dotted with clusters of white tepees, with 
now and then one of darker coloring. Moving 


107 


108 How A-chon-ho-ah toxind the Light. 

forms were seen in every direction, some on 
foot, others mounted upon ponies. The sun- 
light flashed across picturesque costumes or- 
namented with beads, shells, brass buttons, 
feathers, and stained with brilliant coatings of 
paint. Some of the Indians were seen taking 
their way toward the mission church, but only 
a few. The greater portion seemed bent upon 
other plans. A crowd of men and boys were 
preparing for a big game of ball; others were 
going to have a race. Many had congregated 
about the Agency. Some of these were engaged 
in pitching quoits. Only the women and girls 
seemed to find in this day nothing out of the 
common. They were at work as usual, bring- 
ing wood and water, hobbling the ponies that 
remained at the camp, tending the fires, and 
preparing the meals. 

The bell rang early from the mission chapel. 
This was always the plan on Sunday, so as to 
give the Indians plenty of time to gather. The 
morning services were set for ten o’clock. Prior 
to the sermon there was always a half-hour of 
singing, accompanied by the organ. The In- 
dians loved dearly these seasons of song, and 
many came to listen to the music who did not 
remain to the other services. In the afternoon 
the Sunday-school was held. At that time, 
too, there was more singing and more playing 


A Little Ray from the Light. 109 

upon the organ, and crowds of the Indians 
attended. 

The church building was quite small. It 
hardly accommodated the Indians who already 
came. How fervently the good missionary was 
hoping and praying that the Mission Board 
could see its way clear to enlarging it. If they 
did not soon do this, he would have to take his 
congregation out of doors. This would surely 
do very well for the summer, but it was not to 
be thought of for the winter. The blasts of 
those prairies were too keen and icy for out- 
door preaching. 

It was a quaint sight to see the mothers 
coming with their babies upon their backs in 
their long board cradles with the ends stick- 
ing up above their heads hke the horns of 
animals! There the little fellow lay with his 
back to his mother’s, and his eyes blinking at 
the sun. When the church was reached she 
propped him up against the end of the bench 
on which she took her seat. But if there 
chanced to be no space for her at the end of 
the bench, where she could sit and watch him, 
she took him in between the benches and sat 
him straight up in front of her, holding him 
in this position by means of the horns of the 
cradle, her head peering out above his ! 

Most of these women had their necks and 


110 How A-chon-ho-ah found the Light, 

faces horribly smeared with paint ; so also were 
the eyes and cheeks of the babies. All but 
one or two were in their camp dress. This 
generally consisted of a short skirt, falling not 
more than half-way below the knees, moccasins 
gaily beaded, leggings trimmed with feathers 
and shells, and a strip of cahco folded in the 
middle, with openings for the head and arms, 
and belted about the waist. Over all, if the 
weather was chilly, was draped a blanket, with 
picturesque folds about shoulders and head, 
its ends falling almost to their heels. Nearly 
all of them had short hair, thick, and straight, 
and black. About the crown of the head there 
was a smearing of paint. This was generally 
in the form of rings, inside of which were dots, 
and curves, and half-circles, some of them in- 
tended to represent animals’ eyes. 

On the other hand, the men wore their hair 
long, in plaits hanging down their backs. 
Nearly all of them had the tail of some animal 
woven in at the end of the plaits. They, too, 
had on moccasins and leggings and blankets. 
Some were in full war dress, and as they walked, 
the numerous shells, beads, buttons, and teeth 
of animals, with which they had adorned them- 
selves from head to toe, made a sharp, clank- 
ing sound. Eagle feathers were in their hair, 
and knives and pistols at their belt. Some 


Ill 


A Little Ray from the Light. 

even carried a spear, which they leaned against 
the wall as they took their seats. 

Altogether, it was a scene but little sugges- 
tive of the true mission upon which these 
savage creatures had come — that of hearing 
preached the gentle gospel of the Prince of 
Love and Peace. But, as barbarous as was 
their appearance; as savage as seemed their 
surroundings ; as wild, nay, even warlike, as 
was their mode of dress ; as hard and forbid- 
ding as appeared the faces of many of them, 
yet some of these very same savages had again 
and again showed what power the gospel of 
Jesus the Saviour had to reach and stir their 
hearts. The missionary had seen them when 
they had been as trees swayed by the wind; 
when the fountains behind those seemingly 
hard and barbarously painted eyes had been 
broken up, and the tears had stolen like rain 
down their brilliantly dyed cheeks. 

There was some sweet singing, one song in 
particular that seemed to stir them, “Jesus 
Lover of my Soul,” alternately in Kiowa and 
Comanche. Emma Melville was at the organ, 
and never had she tried to make the music 
sound sweeter than to-day. It seemed to her, 
since the experiences of yesterday, that it meant 
so much more. Two or three of the Christian 
Indian women and girls and one or two of the 


112 How A-chon-ho-ah l^ound the Light. 

men sat with her to help her sing. There were 
also a few of the young people from the fami- 
lies at the Agency. 

The missionary had his two best interpreters 
with him, Brother Andres and Charlie Aha- 
tone. After the singing he made a talk speci- 
ally to the young people. This talk Charlie 
interpreted for him. It was an earnest plea to 
them to start now in the good way, while they 
were young and could easily follow it. If they 
waited until they were old, it would be harder, 
for then their feet would have grown so accus- 
tomed to walking in the old ways of sin that it 
would be difficult to turn them aside. He end- 
ed by begging all who were interested in what 
he had said, and who truly wanted to find the 
good way and to walk therein, to come out to 
the Sunday-school services that afternoon. 

Then he began his sermon to all, or, rather, 
his talk, for it could not really be called a ser- 
mon. Andres interpreted for him, and how 
clearly and beautifully he did it! The talk 
was all about a loving Father and his Son. 
This Father, it seemed, was the very same that 
the Indians had long worshipped as the Great 
Spirit, only they had not known him in the 
right way, nor worshipped him as he wanted 
to be worshipped. They had stood in great 
awe of him, and had looked upon him as a 


113 


A Little Ray from the Light, 

dreadful being, who spoke tp them only in the 
deep thunder, and sent his lightnings to show 
that he was angry. Instead of thus keeping 
away from him and standing in awe of him, he 
wanted them to draw near ; to feel that he was 
indeed their loving Father, and that they were 
his children ; more, he wanted them to love 
and trust him. 

Many of the Indians were astonished at this, 
but some, who had before heard of this loving 
Father, bent nearer and listened all the more 
attentively. A few were truly surprised to hear 
that both the red man and the white man had 
the same Father. This was indeed news to 
them. 

Among the latter were A-chon-ho-ah and 
Atogeer. They had really come to the services. 
Ton-ke-a-bau had at last consented, though he 
had warned them from the start that he would 
not have any of the foohshness they heard at 
the church repeated on their return to the te- 
pee. They were glad to go upon any terms, so 
they accepted this condition readil3^ 

Emma had noticed them when they first came 
in, and her heart was truly glad. She managed 
to give them a little nod of recognition from 
her seat at the organ. Andres, too, had caught 
sight of them, and he looked at them very earn- 
estly many times while he was interpreting. 

8 


114 How A-chon-ho-aJi Found the Light. 

When the good missionary said that about 
the red man and the white man having the same 
Father, how it stirred the hearts of A-chon- 
ho-ah and Atogeer! Could this really be true? 

The good missionary continued: “This Great 
Spirit, whom we call God, the Father of the red 
man and of the white — the Father, indeed, of 
all who are on the earth — this Great Spirit 
loves all mankind, and it is in love that he 
wants them to come to him, and not in fear. 
So well, in truth, does he love his children, 
that, rather than have them die in sin and be 
lost, as they once came very near to doing, he 
sent his only Son to bear upon himself the 
burden of their sins, and to die for them, that 
they might in this way be saved, through re- 
pentance and faith in the blood which he shed 
for them. 

“This Jesus, the Son whom the Father sent, 
is called the Saviour of men, because he came 
to save them from their sins. 

“When he had finished his work here on 
earth, which was to teach men the way, the 
truth, and the life, he went back again to 
heaven, and he is there now, ready and wait- 
ing to hear all who call upon him. It is true 
that he was put to death by cruel men, but he 
broke the bonds of death, came up out of the 
grave, and ascended unto his Father. Oh! 


115 


A Little Ray from the Light. 

what cannot this great and loving Jesus do for 
you, who could triumph over even death ; 
who could overcome even the darkness of the 
grave, and cause a glad light to shine there- 
from?” 

There was a chorus of earnest approval and 
many hearty shakes of the head at these words. 
Several seemed deeply impressed ; none more 
so than A-chon-ho-ah, child though she was. 

There it is again, she thought, at mention of 
this wonderful Jesus and of the light he has 
brought. What a great Hght it must be if it 
could overcome even the darkness of the grave ! 
A-chon-ho-ah leaned forward eagerly to hear 
more. 

‘‘ Oh, gracious and loving indeed is this Jesus, 
the Saviour of men,” continued the missionary. 
‘‘ He came in love to die for sinful man, and in 
love he still pleads with his Father for all who 
go astray. He came to bring light and peace 
and joy to all who had wandered in darkness; 
and light and peace and joy he still gives to all 
who believe in him. But this is not the best 
part. Listen! This Jesus, the Son of God 
and Saviour of men, is to come again, to come 
again some day — it may not be very far away — 
to come again to meet all who have truly loved 
and served him here, and to bless and to make, 
oh, so joyous and glad and so full of hght the 


116 How A-chon-ho-ah Fo\ind the Light, 

hearts of those who have so faithfully watched 
for his coming!” 

A-chon-ho-ah’s heart almost went up through 
her throat at these words. So Dau-ka-ye was> 
to come again! He had not, then, gone away 
for good ! She would yet see him ! When 
that time came, the time she was to see him, 
then the light would be hers. Oh, what a 
precious light this must be — this light that 
could make bright even the dark grave ! She 
wondered when Dau-ka-ye would come. She 
hoped it would be soon, for, oh, she did want 
to see him so much ! 

Somehow, when A-chon-ho-ah thought of 
Dau-ka-ye, she thought of the mountains 
around her home, or, that is, around the spot 
where the greater portion of her time was 
passed and that she knew as home. This spot 
was amid the pasture lands, in full view of the 
blue line of the Wichita peaks, and in their 
midst the towering cone of Mt. Scott. How 
fervently A-chon-ho-ah loved the mountains! 
this one peak particularly. It seemed as an 
old and tried friend, a true, good friend, to 
whom she could tell her joys and sorrows and 
be sure of interest and sympathy. Day after 
day she had lain upon her back amid the tall, 
waving grasses with her eyes fixed upon this 
peak, beautiful, graceful, towering, its summit 


A Little Hay from the Light. 117 

seeming to meet and mingle with the sky that 
bent above it. To A-chon-ho-ah there was 
something about this mountain altogether dif- 
ferent from any other she had ever seen. It 
was doubtless because it was the tallest moun- 
tain she knew. Sometimes it seemed to her 
that its peak must surely be looking into that 
land where the Great Spirit Hved of whom 
A-chon-ho-ah had heard. Now, as she thought 
of Dau-ka-ye and of his coming, A-chon-ho-ah 
thought, too, of the mountain. 

“Oh, it wiU surely be upon the mountain 
that he will come! ” she said to herself. “It is 
there that we shall see him first ; I feel it 1 I 
know it 1 He wdU kindle there the beautiful 
light, and then he will come down from his 
throne. Oh, how I wish I could see the moun- 
tain now! I will watch it every day when we 
go back.” 

The missionary had ceased speaking, but he 
had left a precious ray of light in A-chon- 
ho-ah’s heart. Before, all had been so dark. 
That was when she had thought Dau-ka-ye 
had gone away from the world, never to return. 
But now that he was coming back, how happy 
she was ! As long as he was out of this world, 
she did not see how it was possible for him to 
be reached and the Hght to be found ; but now 
that he was coming back into it, then, indeed, 


118 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

lie could be seen, and the precious light, too, 
that he brought. All was not darkness now. 
There was a ray amid the gloom — the ray of 
hope. 

After the services were over, the missionary 
went around among his congregation, shaking 
hands with all who would do so. 

A-chon-ho-ah and Atogeer did not wait for 
him to come to them, but went to him instead. 
He remembered his little acquaintance of the 
day before, and greeted her warmly. He also 
shook hands earnestly with Atogeer, and told 
her he was glad she had come to the church. 

‘‘And has my little friend yet managed to 
read in the book I gave her? ” he asked, hold- 
ing A-chon-ho-ah’s hand, and gazing straight 
down into her eyes. 

“Oh, yes, sir; I have read it twice, every bit 
of what you marked for me. I can do that very 
well now, since your daughter read it to me and 
helped me to know the words.” 

“ Yes, Emma told me that. I am so glad she 
went home with you. I have promised her that 
we will go together next time.” 

“Oh, sir, I should like that so much!” 
A-chon-ho-ah’s eyes filled with tears at the 
thought, but they were tears of joy. 

“How many days will you yet be at the 
Agency?” he turned to ask of Atogeer. 


119 


A Little Ray from the Light. 

“ I think, about five more. To-morrow is the 
issue, you know. After that it will take us 
about four days to get the meat stripped and 
dried so we can move it.” 

“Well, I can surely come by that time. So, 
look out for me, my httle friend.” 

“ Did your husband give his consent to your 
coming to-day? ” he suddenly asked of Atogeer. 

“ Yes, sir, after a time ; but he was very par- 
ticular in saying that he didn’t want anything 
we saw or heard talked about after we got back 
to the camp. He doesn’t like to hear about 
such things. Somehow they anger him.” 

The missionary sighed, and, as though to 
relieve his mind of this unpleasant picture, 
turned to A-chon-ho-ah, saying, with a smile : 
“ Have you the little book I gave you ? ” 

“Oh, yes, sir!” she answered, quickly and 
gladly, taking it from her little beaded pouch 
as she spoke. 

“Well, then, I will mark you another place; 
nay, two. You must read them over as best 
you can, and when my daughter and myself 
come we, too, will read them to you, and make 
them just as clear as we can make them.” 

He took the little Testament, opened it, and, 
glancing through its pages, marked carefully 
two passages, put a little slip of paper in 
between the pages at each place, and handed 


120 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

the book back to her. The passages were 
from the first through the sixteenth verse of 
the fifth chapter of St. Matthew, and from the 
sixteenth through the twenty-third verse of the 
sixth chapter, all from Christ’s Sermon on the 
Mount. 

As he was handing the book back, Emma 
approached. She had been detained by a lit- 
tle crowd that had gathered around the organ, 
or she would have greeted them sooner. 

I am so glad to see you,” said she, heartily, 
as she warmly shook the hand of each; “so 
glad that you could come.” 

“Yes, I am glad too,” A-chon-ho-ah re- 
turned, “for we did want to come so much, my 
mother as well as I. We were so happy when 
my father at last said we could come. My 
mother was so interested in what you read at 
the tepee.” 

She said this in a low tone as she approached 
nearer to Emma. A glad light came swiftly to 
Emma’s eyes. What good news this was! 

“I am so pleased to hear that,” she said, 
softly. “I hope you can get your mother to 
come again to the church.” 

“ Oh, she would come quickly enough if only 
she had a chance, but in five days more we’ll 
be gone. I heard her tell your father so,” 
and A-chon-ho-ah ended the words with a sigh. 


A. Little Ray from the Light, 121 

“ That is too bad ! How far away will you 
be when you are at home ; I mean at the place 
where you stay for the most part of the time?” 

“ It is about fifty miles, I think; maybe it is 
a httle more, but, I think, fifty miles.” 

“That is indeed a good distance, too far I 
fear to come to church regularly. But some 
of the Indians come almost that far now and 
then,” she added, suddenly. 

“Do they?” 

A-chon-ho-ah seemed astonished. 

“Yes; there was one old woman here last 
Sunday. My father told me about her. She 
had come more than thirty miles, getting up in 
the night to start. Only a small boy was with 
her. Another came twenty-five miles, and, 
what was more, she walked it, taking two days 
to do so. She had two rivers to wade, and was 
all wet and bedraggled when she came. My 
mother gave her clean, dry clothes, she was so 
touched at what the woman had done.” 

A-chon-ho-ah was certainly interested; she 
was touched, too. 

“How earnest they must be to come like 
that and so far ! ” she said, quickly. “ But my 
father would not let us do anything hke that, 
even if we wanted to. He is very particular.” ^ 

“But you will come again next issue?” in- 
quired Emma, suddenly. 


122 How A-chon-ho~ah Found the Light, 

“No, we may not. My father will doubtless 
come in the wagon. He often does that way. 
It is less trouble, he says, than to move, for 
he can then sleep in the other tepees with his 
friends.” 

“ It is too bad that you will not come again 
soon. But, A-chon-ho-ah, you must not forget 
what you have heard here to-day, or anything 
my father has said to you. Eemember, we are 
both coming to see you before you go away. 
And, A-chon-ho-ah, be sure to read the httle 
book he gave you all you can.” 

“That I will,” promised A-chon-ho-ah. 

“He marked another place for you, did he 
not?” 

“Yes, two places. He said he would explain 
them to me when he came.” 

“ I know they are both something beautiful. 
You must be sure to read them as soon as you 
get to the tepee, A-chon-ho-ah.” 

“ I will try to read them even before that. I 
will try to read one of them, at least, as I go 
along on my pony.” 

“How earnest you are, A-chon-ho-ah! Are 
you not coming to the Sunday-school this after- 
noon?” 

A-chon-ho-ah’s eyes fell ; her bps seemed to 
be going to quiver, only she held herself back 
firmly. 


123 


A Little Ray from the Light. 

“I’m afraid I cannot. My father said this 
morning that we conld come only once to-day.’ 

“That is too bad! Bnt 1 hope that even the 
‘once’ has done much good, A-chon-ho-ah. 
Does it seem clearer now about Dau-ka-ye?” 

“Oh, yes, it does!” cried A-chon-ho-ah, sud- 
denly, her eyes brightening. 

“I am so glad, A-chon-ho-ah!” 

“He is coming back, you know,” A-chon- 
ho-ah continued ; “ then it will be easy to see 
him. Before, it was so dark, because A-chon- 
ho-ah did not understand how it was possi- 
ble to find the light unless he came back to 
bring it.” 

Emma looked a httle perplexed. She did not 
quite comprehend the drift of A-chon-ho-ah’s 
remarks. When she understood them more 
clearly, she said: “But it may be a long, long 
time ere he comes, A-chon-ho-ah, even after 
A-chon-ho-ah has gone away from this world 
herself. How much better to find the fight 
now, A-chon-ho-ah, and not to wait!” 

“But how can it be found until he comes to 
bring it?” A-chon-ho-ah asked, her mind back 
again amid its old uncertain gropings with the 
thick shadows. “I do not understand. It is 
all so dark when I try to think of it that way. 
I cannot see how it is to be. No, no, no! I 
must wait for his coming. He surely will come. 


124 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

The good missionary said so this very morning. 
Oh ! how much better it is for me to think of it 
in that way ! It puts such a bright ray of hght 
here,” placing her hand upon her heart, “and 
makes A-chon-ho-ah look forward with such 
sweet hope.” 

Atogeer now came up to hasten A-chon- 
ho-ah home. The missionary had carried her 
towards the rear of the church, so as to meet 
his wife, and during the past ten or fifteen 
minutes they had been talking very earnestly 
together. Thus Emma and A-chon-ho-ah had 
been alone through most of their conversation. 

Emma’s eyes had a sad expression as she 
watched A-chon-ho-ah leave the church. How 
great was the darkness yet in which she dwelt! 
But A-chon-ho-ah herself did not think so ; in- 
deed, her heart at that moment was in a burst 
of gladness because of that same precious ray 
which had come to dwell in her breast. How 
much clearer everything was now! Before, aU 
had been so dark ; now this same sweet ray of 
hght made such gladness in her heart — the 
gladness of hope ! 


CHAPTEK VII. 

WHAT A-CHON-HO-AH SAW ISSUE-DAY. 
HE next day began the regular semi- 



1 monthly issue of provisions to the In- 
dians, hence it was called Issue-Day. This 
occurred on the first and middle of each 
month. Then upwards of four thousand In- 
dians gathered at the Agency, men, women, 
and children. They were here now in full 
force — nay, in more than usual force, for this 
Issue-Day marked a double occasion. Not 
only were the Indians to draw their regular 
allowance of provisions, etc., but they were also 
to receive their ‘‘grass-money.” This “grass- 
money” is paid the Indians by the Texas Cat- 
tle Company, to whom the Indians lease a large 
portion of their lands for grazing purposes. 
The money is paid semi-annually at the Ana- 
darko Agency, every man, woman, and child 
getting at each payment as much as ten dollars 
apiece. Over forty thousand dollars are thus 
paid out, and it is indeed a grand occasion for 
the Indians. But it is a grander one for the 
store-keepers. Then money flows freely. Being 
highly improvident, the Indian knows not how 


125 


126 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

to value his good fortune when he receives it. 
Generally, he parts with his full ten dollars for 
the first article or articles that strike his fancy. 
Now and then, however, one is more careful, 
and makes good use of his “grass-money.” 
But this is the exception. 

The issue of provisions by the Government 
takes place from what is known as the supply- 
houses. These are two long shed-like buildings 
standing near the upper end of the Agency, 
and piled from floor to ceiling wdth bags of 
flour, boxes of soda and soap, bins of sugar 
and cofi’ee, and barrels of vinegar, dried fruit, 
etc. The amount issued to each Indian is five 
pounds of flour, one pound of sugar, one-half 
pound of coffee, one pound of salt, two pounds 
of fruit, one pound of soap, and one-eighth of 
a pound of soda. In addition to this, from 
one hundred and seventy-five to two hundred 
beeves are delivered to the Indians from the 
pens. These pens are situated about a half- 
mile from the supply-houses. 

The men do not condescend to receive the 
provisions. The women and girls are sent to 
attend to this. It is indeed an amusing sight 
to see the many and varied receptacles into 
which these provisions are poured and then 
borne away. Sometimes it is an old skirt tied 
together at one end, or, again, a breeches leg, 


What A-chon-ho-ah Saw Issue-Day. 127 

or part of a shirt, maybe the sleeves. When 
these are stuffed with flour they indeed present 
a comical sight. Sometimes a woman is seen 
with flour and baby wrapped in the same shawl. 

On this particular Issue-Day Mr. Melville 
went early to the supply-houses, taking John 
and Emma with him. John had a httle kodak 
with which he wanted to take some pictures to 
send to friends in his old home, and maybe, 
too, to the missionary magazines, if they turned 
out to be real good ones. 

“ I don’t believe you will be able to get very 
good pictures, John,” said his father ; “ the 
scenes shift so. Whatever you do, don’t let 
the Indians get a clear view of the box. You 
know their superstition with reference to boxes, 
especially black ones. They’d be sure to think 
this was a box of bad medicine, and that you were 
trying to put a spell upon them. We must be 
careful not to get their enmity in any way.” 

“ I’ll be careful, father,” assured John. 

He was a tall, manly-looking lad, a year or 
so older than his sister. He had his father’s 
bright, clear eyes and earnest way of speaking. 
He had, too, his father’s soft, fair hair, and 
fine, broad brow. 

‘‘ I want specially to catch a picture of the 
Caddoes,” he continued. “You know how 
slippery they are ; you never can put your 


128 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

hand on one when you want him. Father, 
what makes them seem to have such a terror 
of the white people? downright aversion, too, 
it seems. You know, one of them rarely ever 
comes about the mission -station.” 

“Yes, I have noticed this, and regret it,” his 
father returned. “ I don’t know why they have 
such a dislike to the white people, or rather 
fear of them. They are exceedingly supersti- 
tious, perhaps the most superstitious of any of 
the Indians, and they lead very degraded lives. 
Just now they are giving the white people at 
the Agency a great deal of uneasiness. I wish 
something could be done.” 

He seemed to speak more to himself than to 
John, but John rephed quickly by asking a 
question : “ What is it, father, they are do- 
ing?” 

“They are engaging in what is called 
ghost dancing. Every night numbers of the 
other Indians go over the mountains to see 
them. These dances are exceedingly demor- 
alizing, and many of the other Indians are 
catching the fever of them. Some nights the 
wild revels are kept up until daylight. The 
Agent sent one or two of the Indian poUce to 
see what could be done, but the police instead 
of making things better made them worse. 
Indeed, the Caddoes and their friends were 


What A-chon-ho-ah Saw Issue-Day. 129 

greatly incensed against the Agent, and ques- 
tioned his authority. It may yet lead to an 
outbreak.” 

“Too bad,” said John; “but hasn’t the 
Agent the authority to put down the revels, 
father? ” 

“ Yes, if they disturb the peace and threaten 
the welfare of anyone. But such things have 
to be handled delicately. The Indian is ready 
for a quarrel with the white man any time, 
and where he so far outnumbers him, a hun- 
dred or more to one, caution has to be mixed 
with justice. Why, here are our friends again !” 
he broke off, at the same time turning to shake 
hands with A-chon-ho-ah and Atogeer, who 
had just ridden up on their ponies. 

“That is a very bright-looking little girl,” 
said John, as Atogeer and A-chon-ho-ah 
passed on, after a few moments’ conversation. 

“That she is,” returned Emma. “I was 
over at their tepee Saturday. They hve very 
well indeed, and A-chon-ho-ah said and did 
many things that surprised me, as I wasn’t 
expecting them from one brought up in the 
camps as she has been. But, then, she has 
been for several terms to the government 
schools, and certainly has improved her op- 
portunities.” 

Atogeer and A-chon-ho-ah rode on towards 
9 


130 IIow A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

the supply-house. They had brought clean, 
white sacks of canvas for their supplies. As 
they approached the door where the streams 
of women were pouring, the one in and the 
other out, A-chon-ho-ah was distressed to see 
two women fighting over some fiour they were 
endeavoring to carry away between them. The 
flour was in an old pair of breeches, one leg of 
which had been cut half away. It seems that 
neither woman wanted to bear the weight of 
the longer and heavier leg, and both were con- 
tending for the shorter and lighter one. 

“I wish they wouldn’t fight that way!” said 
A-chon-ho-ah. “ What makes them ? It is too 
bad! I feel sure white people wouldn’t do so.” 

Her mother looked at her with a httle frown. 

“No; you are not sure of that,” she said. 
“I don’t believe the white people are perfect 
any more than the Indians.” 

“I reckon not, mother, not perfect. But, 
then, they have better ways, and they seem 
to get along with each other much more 
kindly.” 

“You are not with them much, and you see 
only from the outside, A-chon-ho-ah. I do 
not like to hear you talk about your people that 
way,” and again Atogeer frowned. 

“Oh, mother, I meant no harm! But I do 
hate to see them act as they do. Just look. 


What A-chon-ho-ah Saxo Issue-Day. 131 

now, what the women have done — or rather, 
one of them ! ” 

Atogeer turned her head. It certainly was a 
scene to call for reproof, that upon which she 
looked. One of the women, growing quite 
angry, had suddenly drawn a knife from her 
waist, and, with a lunge in the direction of the 
pants legs, had severed one from the other. 
Of course, the flour went pouring out of both 
legs all over the ground. But this seemed 
to make no difference to the woman. Quickly 
shouldering the shorter leg, and totally un- 
mindful of the waste, she marched triumph- 
antly away. 

“ I think she ought to be told how ugly she 
behaved!” said A-chon-ho-ah, positively. 

“She certainly does deserve speaking to,” 
assented Atogeer. “ I am sorry for the woman 
who is left. She seems to be having a time 
with the leg.” 

“I will give her a string from my saddle to 
tie it up with,” said A-chon-ho-ah, and suiting 
action to word, she rode nearer and sprang from 
her pony, string in hand. The woman cer- 
tainly was glad to get it, and muttered her 
thanks as she tied up the unwieldly leg, look- 
ing regretfully at the flour scattered over the 
ground, and which she had made an effort in 
part to gather up. 


132 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

As A-chon-ho-ali returned to her mother she 
saw an old squaw standing beside her, wringing 
her hands and telling a most pitiful storj. She 
had been playing a game called Gu-del-pha, it 
seemed, with three other squaws. It was a 
gambhng game, and she had lost every cent of 
her ‘‘grass-money.” 

As she had pledged this same money to her 
husband to help buy a pony, and he had threat- 
ened her with what he would do if she did not 
keep her pledge, she was now in great straits 
with reference to it. She had hoped to win in- 
stead of losing, and thus to have some money 
of her own after giving her husband the ten. 
The same fever that urged on other gamblers, 
the fever of gain, had taken possession of her, 
too. She was now entreating Atogeer to go 
with her to see the women, and to help her beg 
them to return the money. 

“ Oh ! he will beat me ! he will beat me ! ” she 
wailed, referring to her husband. 

While she was at the heigTit of her distress, 
and still entreating Atogeer, the missionary 
came up. He made it a point on these days 
always to be abroad, and to mingle with the 
Indians. He hoped in this way to know them 
better, and to be known of them. He wanted 
them all to feel that he was their friend ; that 
he was ready to listen to their joys or sorrows, 


What A-chon-ho-ah Saw Issue-Day. 133 

and that he was ready, too, to help them when 
he could. But he had a deeper motive still : he 
hoped to reach them with the precious truths 
of eternal life, and to fill their darkened minds 
with the blessed rays of the gospel light. Thus, 
when he saw the poor old squaw in distress, he 
went quickly towards her. 

“What is it, Wau-we-so,” he asked, “what 
is it that has troubled you?” 

The squaw stopped gesticulating, and turned 
her face towards him: “Wau-we-so miserable! 
W au- we-so ready to die I All her money gone ! 
Ten dollars in all! Gone at Gu-del-pha! Wau- 
we-so had promised it to Tau-ke-no for pony. 
Now money gone, he beat Wau-we-so to death! 
Wau-we-so wish she could die!” and she fell 
to swinging her hands again wildly in the air, 
first up, and then down. 

“Where did she lose her money?” he asked 
of Atogeer, “ to whom ? and when ? ” 

She answered the last question first: “It was 
only a little while ago, and it was to those 
squaws over there behind the big box, with the 
blankets spread out before them.” 

“Come, Wau-we-so,” he said to the squaw, 
“ and show me which ones they were who got 
your money.” 

He beckoned to Charhe Ahatone, who was a 
few paces away from him, and, followed by the 


134 How A-chon-ho-ah tound the Light 

old squaw, lie approached the women. They 
were all young women, and three in number. 
They had their shawls and a blanket spread out 
beneath and before them, and were sitting in a 
half-circle about a flat stone, placed at an equal 
distance from each one. They had five flat, 
oblong sticks, about six inches in length and 
two in width. One side of these sticks was 
painted red and the other black. They held 
the sticks in their hand, poised above the stone. 
Then, with a little movement, they flung them 
upon the stone. If a stick fell with the black 
side up, it counted nothing ; if with the red 
side, then it was five. Whoever scored one 
hundred first had the game and whatever had 
been put up by the others. 

There was a small pile of money lying near 
the centre of the blankets. As the approach 
of Mr. Melville and Charlie Ahatone was ob- 
served, one of the squaws quickly raked the 
money out of sight beneath her skirt. Then 
they went on playing, apparently in the most 
innocent manner. 

“Are these the women, Wau-we-so?” Mr. 
Melville asked in a low tone. She nodded her 
head. 

Mr. Melville drew near, and bending toward 
the women said, kindly : “ This poor old woman 
has lost her money, aU that she had. She is 


What A-chon-ho-ah Saw Issue- Day. 135 

terribly distressed. I think it was all in a joke 
that you took it from her. I feel sure you will 
now give it back to her, especially when you 
learn that her husband will beat her almost to 
death if she does not carry it to him.” 

Two of the women were Kiowa, the other an 
Apache. As the latter did not seem to under- 
stand, he motioned to CharHe to interpret for 
him. 

“I am sure you will give the old woman her 
money,” he said again, persuasively. 

The squaws preserved a sullen silence, and 
went on with their game. 

Seeing that heroic measures were necessary, 
Mr. Melville continued: “As I came up I 
caught sight of a pile of money, so did my 
friend, Charhe, here. The money is now under 
the skirt of that squaw,” pointing toward one 
of them as he spoke. “You know the law is 
that no playing for money must be carried on 
in the Government grounds. Give the money 
to the squaw here from whom you have taken 
it, and nothing will be said of it, at least not 
this time. Only,” he added, determinedly, “it 
must not occur again. It is not only wrong to 
break the law,” he continued, in a kinder tone, 
“but it is also sinful to play this game in order 
to win money. Let me beg you not to do it 
again. It can bring no good to you, but only 


136 How A-cTwn-ho-ah Found the Light. 

sorrow, and, perhaps, great trouble. See what 
it has done for this poor woman here. She is 
wringing her hands in the deepest grief, and 
weeping as though her heart would break. 
Nor does it end here. She knows that she 
will be beaten, perhaps nearly to death, when 
she goes back to her tepee, and all because she 
has lost the money. Will you not stop this by 
giving her back the money?” 

One of the squaws seemed touched at last. 
She looked around at the others and mur- 
mured something. One resolutely shook her 
head ; the other seemed undecided. 

Mr. Melville had noticed that when he spoke 
of the law it had had a visible effect upon each 
one. He now resolved to return to that point ; 
only he felt he must do so gently, because he 
did not want to make enemies of the women. 

“ You know, I could inform upon you,” he 
said, kindly, “for gambhng here in the Govern- 
ment grounds, and you would be arrested and 
doubtless made to pay a fine. But I don’t 
want to do that. I don’t want to see you in 
trouble, even though you have done wrong, 
for I bear you no ill-will, none whatever. Only 
return the money to the old woman, and no- 
thing more will be said.” 

He paused a moment, intently regarding 
them. He seemed to have reached them at 


What A-chon-ho-ah Saw Issue- Day. 137 

last. Fear had proven a more powerful incen- 
tive than pity. They consulted together for a 
few moments ; then each threw down upon the 
blankets the amount she had won from Wau- 
we-so, at the same time motioning her to take it 
away. This she did without a second bidding. 

“And now,” continued Mr. Melville, looking 
toward them kindly, “let me beg you not to 
play this game any more for money. Oh, it is 
so wrong! and it will have such a bad effect 
upon you. Money gained in this way can 
bring no good to its winner. Sooner or later 
you will find that out. I wish you well, believe 
me, or I would not have talked to you in this 
way.” 

With these words he turned and left them. 
Charhe lingered, and seemed to be talking to 
them earnestly. Mr. Melville walked back to- 
wards the front entrance of the supply-house, 
near which he had left J ohn and Emma. Wau- 
we-so kept close beside him. The old woman 
was very grateful, and murmured her thanks 
over and^over again. She would have taken 
his hand and kissed it had he allowed it. 

Atogeer and A-chon-ho-ah were just going 
to their ponies with their bags of supphes. 
The old woman made her way quickly towards 
them, and began pouring out the story of what 
the missionary had done for her, at the same 


138 How A-cJion-ho-aTi Found the Light. 

time holding up the money. Both seemed 
greatly pleased that the old woman had come 
out of her troubles. 

“ He is certainly a good man,” said Atogeer, 
looking toward the missionary. 

“That he is, mother!” exclaimed A-chon- 
ho-ah. “ Oh, I am so glad he is coming to our 
tepee! Do you think my father will be cross 
to him if he is there?” she asked, suddenly, 
and a little anxiously. 

“ I do not know ; but I hope not. I will tell 
him what he did to-day for old Wau-we-so, and 
then I am sure your father will think better of 
him.” 

Mother and daughter rode back to their tepee 
to deposit their supplies. After that they were 
going to the pens to see about the butchering. 

All the way to the tepee A-chon-ho-ah was 
thinking of the missionary, and of what she had 
seen and heard at the supply-house. How good 
he was, and how ready to sympathize with and 
to help those who were in trouble! He surely 
was a friend to the Indian. Everybody must 
see that. How sorry she was that they were 
going away where she would not see him again 
for a long time. 

AU the men were gathered about the pens, 
many hundreds of them. They were mounted 
on their ponies, with pistols and knives in their 


What A-chon-ho-ah Saw Issue-Day. 139 

belts and gnns slung across the bows of their 
saddles. They were resplendent in paints and 
feathers, beads, and all the paraphernalia of 
full war-dress. They presented a dazzling pic- 
ture as the sun flashed upon them. Many of 
them had on their war-bonnets. These con- 
sisted of a helmet-like hat for the head, with a 
pendant of buckskin, beads, and eagle feathers 
falhng down their backs, and almost to the 
horses’ knees. 

The men were divided into bands known as 
“beef bands.” Each band had its chief, who 
guided and directed everything : the chase 
when the cows were being run down and tor- 
tured, and the distribution of the beef after it 
was butchered. The cows were let out of the 
pen, so many to each band. Instantly the men 
on the ponies, with loud war-whoops and yells, 
dashed into the midst of the poor brutes, fright- 
ening them so that they set off wildly across 
the plains. In order to make the chase all the 
more exciting, they were stung with small shot, 
not badly crippled, but wounded — wounded just 
enough to madden and torture them. After 
they had been chased in this manner for an 
hour or more, and the chase had lost its 
excitement through the spirit of the animals 
having given out, either from exhaustion or 
pain from their wounds, then they were shot 


140 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

down, and the women were left to do the 
butchering. 

It was a terrible and a shocking sight — sick- 
ening, too, to eyes unused to it, and even to 
those that were. Many of the poor, tortured 
cows would run for miles with the blood stream- 
ing from their nostrils. Sometimes they would 
endeavor to make their way back to the Govern- 
ment pens, as though with the hope of finding 
shelter and safety there. On such occasions, 
if they did reach the pens or their vicinity, 
they were mercifully slain by some one of the 
Government officials. 

The most horrible sight was to see the squaws 
doing the butchering. As soon as the cow was 
shot down, they gathered about it, usually four 
of them. Sometimes the skinning began ere 
the animal was quite dead. The women plunged 
their long, keen knives into its quivering body ; 
fiver and fights were taken out smoking hot, 
and in this condition they were eaten. Strips 
were also thrown to the children and dogs who 
stood around. Many old people gathered to 
secure the offals. As much strength was need- 
ed for certain parts of the butchering, the 
squaws bared their arms to the shoulders. As 
they were not careful, face, hands, and arms 
were generally thickly smeared with blood ere 
they were through. 


What A-chon-ho~ah Saw Issue- Day. 141 

A-chon-ho-ah and Atogeer walked towards 
the pen, after leaving their supplies and the 
ponies at the tepees. They would have no 
need for the ponies now; indeed, they would 
be in the way in the work now before them. 
The band to which Ton-ke-a-bau belonged had 
already received its beeves, and the men were 
now chasing them over the plains with wild 
whoops and yells. 

Atogeer and A-chon-ho-ah had not more 
than reached the pen, when Ton-ke-a-bau 
came dashing up on his pony. The cow from 
which their portion of beef was to come had 
already been shot down. He told them it was 
over in the hollow, about a half-mile away. 
He had come to lead them to it. So, he set 
off on his pony, his wife and daughter follow- 
ing him. They had gone only a httle distance 
when a poor, tortured beast, half mad with 
pain and fright, came dashing towards them. 
Behind it galloped two or three men on horse- 
back, brandishing their guns and yelling like 
the wild creatures they were. The cow had 
been shot both in the head and throat, and the 
blood was pouring from its mouth and nos- 
trils. A-chon-ho-ah and Atogeer quickly got 
out of the way, or the tortured beast might 
have trampled them. 

“ Oh, why do they not kill it and put an end 


142 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

fco its sufferings ? ” cried A-chon-lio-ali, shut- 
ting out the sight with the fold of her blanket. 
“It is so cruel to do this way! ” 

But the men evidently had no such intention 
as killing it, at least not then ; on the other 
hand, they seemed desirous of torturing it still 
further. But ere they could do so a Government 
employee ran up, pistol in hand, and quickly 
put an end to the poor beasf s sufferings. 

A-chon-ho-ah shuddered as she heard the 
pistol shots, but she was glad, indeed, it had 
been done. 

On their way to the cow that Ton-ke-a-bau 
had killed they passed by several women en- 
gaged in cutting up beeves. Somehow to-day 
their occupation looked unusually forbidding 
to A-chon-ho-ah. It was so terrible to see 
them get their faces and arms all smeared with 
the blood in this way. It gave them such a 
horrible look. She made up her mind that 
she would suggest to her mother, when they 
came to the cutting up of their own cow, that 
they be just as careful as they could, and not 
get their faces and hands in such a state. 

A-chon-ho-ah almost ran over an old woman 
who was crouched in the grass and ravenously 
gnawing upon a piece of raw liver she had 
secured. A-chon-ho-ah also noticed a collec- 
tion of offals in the grass at her side. 


What A-chon-ho-ah Saw Issue- Day. 143 

Here was another thing that stirred her heart 
with a new feeling. These old people had such 
a dreadful time. No one seemed to care for 
them. Indeed, it was quite apparent that they 
were wished out of the way. They were hardly 
ever fed as they ought to be fed, but were left 
to pick up their living as best they could. It 
seemed hard to treat them this way, especially 
those that were helpless and could do nothing 
for themselves. But she had heard it said that 
old people brought bad luck, as the evil spirits 
came to dwell with them after they were aged. 
Thus those with whom they lived were anxious 
to get rid of them. But, somehow, A-chon-ho-ah 
couldn’t help but pity them, especially now 
since she had heard the missionary speak of 
that wonderful Dau-ka-ye, who loved every- 
thing and everybody, and was anxious to save 
them from all their troubles. Of course, this 
meant that he loved the old people, too, for 
had not the missionary said that he loved 
everybody, and came to die for all f At any 
rate, A-chon-ho-ah made up her mind that 
she would be kinder to the old people than 
she had yet been. Not that she had ever been 
really cruel to any of them ; only careless and 
indifferent. Now she would try to be more 
considerate of them, for did not Dau-ka-ye 
love them? What a glorious thing it was to 


144 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

be loved by Dau-ka-ye! especially as be had 
promised a beautiful light to all who loved 
him in return. A-chon-ho-ah was quite sure 
she loved him then, even though she had never 
seen him. How much more she would love 
him when he came and her eyes could look 
upon him ! 

But A-chon-ho-ah’s thoughts came back 
again to the aged. The sight of the old woman 
crouched in the grass and gnawing away so 
ravenously upon the liver had moved her heart 
as it had not been moved in a long time by any- 
thing similar. The whole attitude of the old 
woman suggested haste and fear. She was 
evidently afraid that some one would discover 
her and drive her away, and maybe take her 
precious feast from her ere she had finished it. 
A-chon-ho-ah resolved that if any old people 
came around them while they were cutting up 
their beef, she would beg her mother to give 
them not only pieces of the liver, but also some 
of the beef, to carry home with them. Then 
they would surely have a chance to cook and 
eat it. 

A-chon-ho-ah saw many more distressing 
scenes that day. She had witnessed almost 
the same things before — many times before. 
But, somehow, they seemed different to-day 
from what they had ever been. Some of them 


What A-chon-ho-ah Saw Issue- Day. 145 

j 

quite sickened her heart, as, for instance, the 
torturing of the cows. Again and again men 
on horseback came flying by in hot pursuit of 
some poor beast or beasts blinded with blood, 
staggering from weakness and pain, and already 
so near death they could hardly run. A-chon- 
ho-ah, after the first glimpse, could not bear to 
look at them. She wondered how she had 
ever looked at them at all. Two or three times 
her mother had to speak to her. Her hand 
trembled so she could hardly perform the 
lighter tasks she was set to do. 

In the midst of it all A-chon-ho-ah kept 
thinking of one verse in that last reading the 
good missionary had marked for her in the 
little Testament. Somehow, this verse took 
closer hold upon A-chon-ho-ah than any of the 
others. She had managed to spell it out very 
well, and to understand it partly, too. But 
she understood it fully now, for she had asked 
the missionary about it that morning when he 
had stopped to speak to them at the supply- 
house, and he had explained it to her. The 
verse was this : “ Blessed are the merciful : for 
they shall obtain mercy 

Oh, how cruel it seemed to torture the poor 
cows this way! They could surely be shot 
down at once without all this wounding and 
giving of lingering pain. The white people did 
10 


146 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

not do so. A-chon-ho-ah had seen two of the 
Government employees butchering a cow for 
the use of the Agent and his family. They had 
killed the poor thing at once. The good mis- 
sionary had said that “merciful” meant to be 
kind and gentle, to take care not to give pain 
needlessly, to pity others, and to do all we 
could to relieve their woes. The Indians surely 
did not do that way. They were not kind to 
the aged, and they gave such pain to the poor 
cows that they chased over the plains as though 
they were really wild creatures, and could not be 
slain in any other way. If they (the Indians) 
were not merciful, kind, gentle, pitiful — would 
Dau-ka-ye be kind to them when he came? 
This question worried A-chon-ho-ah very much. 
She loved her people, and she wanted to see 
them happy and blessed — blessed by that great 
and wonderful Dau-ka-ye when he came. But 
did not the book say that we must be merciful 
if we would have mercy in return? 

A-chon-ho-ah had occasion to go to the 
Agency again that day. She rode hither from 
the tepee on her pony. The road she took this 
time lay directly by the mission-house gate. 
Just in front of the gate there was a little group, 
composed principally of the missionary’s chil- 
dren, only the two older ones being absent. A 
tiny calf lay upon the ground, and over it the 


What A-chon-ho-ah Saw Issue- Day. 147 

children were bending. There was a fresh 
wound upon its neck, which was bleeding con- 
siderably. It had doubtless received it in at- 
tempting to push its head through the strands 
of the barbed wire fence. The children were 

\ 

crying over the calf, and while one endeavored 
to stop the flow of the blood by means of some 
soft cloth bunched together in the hand, another 
was preparing to rub salve upon the wound. 

Glover recognized A-chon-ho-ah as she came 
near, and, looking up, spoke to her. 

“What is the matter with the httle calf?” 
she asked, kindly. 

“ It ran its head through the fence, and got 
cut by the sharp points of the wire,” answered 
Glover. 

“I am very sorry,” said A-chon-ho-ah. 

“ Thank you,” said Glover, with the air of a 
little gentleman. 

“And do you think you can make it well 
again ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, we think that we can ; but we are 
awfully sorry for the poor little thing, for we 
know that it is suffering.” Here Glover’s tears 
broke out afresh. 

A-chon-ho-ah rode on, but the remembrance 
of the tears shed by the missionary’s Httle son 
over the wounded calf Hngered with her for 
many days. How different this was from the 


148 How A-chon-Jio-ah Found the Light. 

way the Indian boys acted! They seemed to 
take such fierce delight in seeing the poor cows 
wounded, and chased over the plains, and tor- 
tured. They even added to the cruelty by join- 
ing in the chase, and piercing them with their 
arrows. It certainly was strange to A-choh- 
ho-ah, this difference. And through all her 
thoughts kept ringing, as though a bell itself 
struck the sound of the words, the verse in the 
little Testament which the missionary had so 
fully explained : ** Blessed are the merciful : for 
they shall obtain mercy.” 

It was Dau-ka-ye who had said that, and 
surely he must be very angry with the Indians 
for acting ks they did. 


CHAPTEK VIII. 

18 DAU-KA-YE REALLY GOMINQ? 



HEN A-chon-ho-ah went back to her 


V V home at the foot of Mt. Scott, she 
heard some strange, strange news. Her father 
had been the first to bring it to the camp, but 
soon all the Indians knew it< and were talking 
about it, and were much excited. This news 
had reference to a new Saviour, or Messiah, 
who was soon to make his appearg-nce. He 
was even then among the Sioux Indians some- 
where in the Northwest, or, at least, so it was 
said. Wonderful stories were told of the things 
that he said and did, and of the powers he dis- 
played. He was soon going to appear to all 
the Indians throughout the country. He was 
coming upon a great wave of earth resembling 
an ocean wave. The Indians would remain 
upon its crest, but the white people would be 
buried beneath it. 

The Indians were endeavoring to prepare 
themselves for the coming of this wonderful 
and glorious Messiah by holding dances in his 
honor. These dances took place every night, 


149 


150 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

and were marked by the wildest kind of 
revels. 

When A-chon-ho-ah first heard the news of 
the new Messiah, her heart almost bounded 
out of her body. She thought, surely it must 
be Dau-ka-ye. He had come, then, and much 
sooner than she expected! But, no, it could 
not be Dau-ka-ye, she concluded, after maturer 
thought. This was not the way that he was to 
come. The missionary had told her differently. 
He was to come in the clouds, with the angels 
with him. How beautifully the missionary had 
told her the story the afternoon he came to the 
tepee — the story of this gentle, loving, noble 
Dau-ka-ye! For the missionary had kept his 
promise. He had not only come once, but 
twice, ere they left the Agency. Once he had 
brought his daughter with him, and the next 
time Mr. Andres had come. 

The story that the missionary had told about 
Dau-ka-ye, and the way he had pictured his 
second coming, were very different from these 
things with reference to the new Messiah. 
Then, there was that one about the white peo- 
ple being buried beneath the wave on which 
the Messiah would ride ! Dan-ka-ye would not 
do that way, A-chon-ho-ah felt assured. He 
would not seek to kill anyone, but rather to 
save all who came to him trustingly. He would 


Dau-ka-ye Really Coming f 151 

be the Saviour of both the white man and the 
Indian. The missionary had said so, and the 
missionary knew. 

But this very characteristic of the pretended 
Messiah, which made A-chon-ho-ah feel well 
assured that he was not the real Dau-ka-ye, 
commended him all the more to the expectant 
Indians. This was the very quality that they 
wanted in a Saviour, the inclination, or, rather, 
the power, to totally sweep the whites from the 
face of the earth, and to give the Indians full 
possession ; for, despite their outwardly peace- 
able appearance, hatred of their old enemy 
still dwelt in many an Indian heart. The 
powder was ready for the match at any mo- 
ment. 

Ton-ke-a-bau was particularly dehghted over 
the news with reference to the new Messiah. 

“It is just what we Indians want,” he de- 
clared to his wife; “some one to free us from 
these abominable whites, and to let us have our 
own in peace.” 

“ I do not see that the whites treat us so very 
bad,” Atogeer replied. “I am sure they are 
kind to us when we go to the Agency, and they 
give us plenty to eat.” 

“Well, what if they do?” returned Ton-ke- 
a-bau, testily; “haven’t they taken our lands 
away from us? and isn’t the white man fast 


152 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light 

claiming everything the Indian used to own? 
Soon it will be our ponies, I suppose, and the 
very tents that are over our heads. I cannot 
trust the white man, and I hate him — yes, I 
hate him!” and Ton-ke-a-bau clenched his fist. 

“ But I thought they paid us for our lands,” 
said Atogeer, quickly. 

“Yes, after a fashion ; nothing like they are 
worth, however. And instead of giving us all 
money, as man to man, they dole out supplies, 
as though we were children or slaves, and not 
able to think or act for ourselves.” 

“ Some of the Indians are not,” said Atogeer, 
again. “You must see this yourself. Many of 
them manage so ill that they get through with 
two weeks’ provisions in one. That shows they 
can’t even take care of things when they are 
given. And when they have a httle money 
they just throw it away.” 

“Oh, those are the idiots!” declared Ton- 
ke-a-bau, complacently. “They really need 
looking after, and the Government should look 
after them '' 

“ But it can’t treat these one way and others 
another. It must deal with all alike.” 

Ton-ke-a-bau showed that he was cornered, 
and he glowered at Atogeer for cornering him. 

“Father,” said A-chon-ho-ah, timidly, “ please 
do not say you hate the white people. I know 


Dau-ka-y^ Beally Coming?" 153 


you do not mean all of them. There are 
some of them who are quite kind and good 
to us. I am sure you do not hate the mis- 
sionary.” 

A-chon-ho-ah uttered this last sentence more 
as a question than as an assertion, while her 
eyes regarded her father wistfully, beseech- 
ingly. 

“I do not know the missionary,” said Ton- 
ke-a-bau, shortly. 

“Oh, I wish you did! It was too bad you 
were not at the tepee any of the times he came. 
He did say so many beautiful things, and he 
asked after you. I am sure he has the kindest 
feehngs towards you, and towards all the rest, 
for that matter. Father,” wistfully, “will you 
not let me read to you in the httle book he left 
with me ? ” 

“No,” declared Ton-ke-a-bau, crustily, “I 
don’t want to hear anything in the book. It’s 
a white man’s book, and that’s enough.” 

“Oh, no,” she returned, gently, “it is a book 
for all. The missionary told me so himself. 
And, father, it has such a beautiful story in it 
of one who is called Jesus, the Son of God. 
He has been once on earth, and is coming 
again — coming to bring us, oh, such a beautiful 
Hght! and to take us to hve with him in his 
own home, which is called heaven. That is,” 


154 How A’chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

correcting herself, “he will do this for us if 
only we are good and try to serve him.” 

“Does that book really tell of the one who 
has come?” cried Ton-ke-a-bau, excitedly, “of 
this one who is even now among the Sioux, and 
who will soon be here riding upon a great wave, 
much higher than any tepee has reached? and 
who is to trample down all the whites and give 
all this land, from the Big Eiver ^ to the ocean, 
to the Indians ? ” 

“No,” said A-chon-ho-ah, slowly; “it is not 
of this one. I feel sure it is not. The book 
tells of Dau-ka-ye, the gentle, loving One, who 
is to be the Saviour of all, of the white and red 
alike.” 

“Then I want nothing to do with it!” de- 
clared Ton-ke-a-bau, fiercely. “The Saviour 
of whom I hear must be the red man’s alone.” 

“But that is not the way with Dau-ka-ye,” 
said A-chon-ho-ah again, gently. “He wants 
to save all. Indeed, he did come once to save 
all who would beheve in him. And, oh, he 
gave them such a beautiful hght when once 
they believed and trusted him 1 ” 

“What kind of a light? ” asked Ton-ke-a-bau, 
quickly. 

“Oh, such a lovely, lovely light! It just 
shone right through the heart, and made every- 


’ The Mississippi. 


Dau-ka-ye Really Coming f'' 155 

one to whom he gave it so happy. And he is 
coming again to bring this same light to many 
who are in darkness.” 

“Well, this is very strange!” Ton-ke-a-bau 
said, as though talking to himself. Then louder : 

“Why, this Messiah over among the Sioux 
seems to be full of hght. He never appears 
except in a circle of fire.” 

A-chon-ho-ah almost started from her seat, 
so startling was this news. 

“Oh, father,” she said, “then it must be 
Dau-ka-ye I It could be no one else. But 
then,” musingly, “there is that terrible story 
about the cruel wave that is to sweep away the 
white people. The Indians surely have that 
wrong. Oh, father,” speaking again to Ton- 
ke-a-bau, “will you not go and see what this 
Messiah is hke, and come and teU us ? ” 

“No,” said Ton-ke-a-bau, “I must not go, 
for then I might miss him. I will stay here 
and wait his coming, for we do not know just 
what route he will take. There is to be a dance 
to-night, and I must go and prepare for it.” 

After ordering Atogeer to get his war costume 
in readiness, and to have some blue, green, and 
red paint mixed, Ton-ke-a-bau left the tepee. 

Atogeer and A-chon-ho-ah talked long after 
Ton-ke-a-bau had gone. A-chon-ho-ah still 
felt a doubt in her mind as to the genuineness 


166 How A‘chon-lio~ah Found the Light. 

of the Sioux Messiah, or, rather, as to his identity 
with Dau-ka-ye. The story with reference to 
the wave and the extermination of the white 
people perplexed her. But, then, there was 
what her father had told her about the circle 
of fire. Whenever she arrived at this point in 
her thoughts it was always with a strong feehng 
in her breast that it must be Dau-ka-ye. She 
read again to her mother all the rbeautiful pas- 
sages in the Testament that the missionary had 
marked, and they talked together of the many 
sweet things he had told them about Dau-ka-ye 
and of his second coming. 

Atogeer could not help A-chon-ho-ah, nor 
throw any hght upon the matter with reference 
to the genuineness of the Sioux Messiah. In- 
deed, she was even more in the dark than her 


child, for her mind had not yet grasped many 1 

things that A-chon-ho-ah’s had. 

Sadly and thoughtfully A-chon-ho-ah weni j 

about her tasks for that morning. When they 'i 

were finished she made her way to her favorite ^ 

resort, a grassy knoll at the foot of a little ) 

clump of cotton-woods, whence, lying along the 
fresh, green slope, she could look upward to 
the tall, imposing summit of Mt. Scott. 

To-day more than ever the mountain at- 
tracted her. It was very beautiful in its sum- ' 


mer verdure, the green of the shrubbery being 


J 


“/s Dau-ka-ye Really Cowing 157 


dashed here and there with the gleam of scarlet 
and gold, as vine and flower made their grace- 
ful appearance amid the openings. There was 
one point in particular upon which A-chon- 
ho-ah fastened her eyes. This was an almost 
bare spot, a few feet down from the summit, 
bare as to shrubbery or trees, but literally 
spangled with wild flowers that crept close to 
the ground, and seemed as though their colors 
had been woven into its very soil. No carpet 
upon a king’s floor had richer, deeper tinting. 
Just above the flowers there was an overhang- • 
ing ledge. It took no wide scope of the imagi- 
nation to make this appear a veritable throne 
to A-chon-ho-ah. It was, indeed, in one sense, 
a throne, — Nature’s throne, and no real and 
canopied platform of royalty could have been 
more imposing in A-chon-ho-ah’s sight. AU 
about the ledge, above and beyond it, were 
lovely glistening patches of the flower known 
as Snow-on-the-mountain.” What could be 
more suggestive of sweetness and purity ? 
Surely this was to be the throne of Dau-ka-ye, 
and here he was to make his apearance. On 
this ledge, with the grand coloring of the wild 
flowers below him, and the pure white of the 
blossoms above and to the right and left of him, 
and the deep blue of the sky bending so that it 
seemingly almost touched the ledge, here he 


158 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

would sit and talk to the people gathered 
below, and reward them according as they 
deserved. Here, too, the glorious light would 
shine all about him who was to give it out 
to others. Of course it would come straight 
down through the clouds, as the sun came. 
There was the sun shining now ; but, oh, this 
light that came by Dau-ka-ye was to be so 
many, many times brighter and more glo- 
rious ! 

“ Oh, I am sure that it is here Dau-ka-ye is 
to first let us see him,” said A-chon-ho-ah, 
“here upon the mountain. He will not have 
far to come down from the clouds, and he will 
bring the light with him, the light greater than 
the sun. Oh, if I can only be here and be one 
of the first to see him when he comes ! ” 

Always in these dreams of Dau-ka-ye he had 
such gentle, beautiful eyes. A-chon-ho-ah pic- 
tured them to herself again and again. How 
loving they would be when they spoke to her ! 
for A-chon-ho-ah felt sure he would speak 
to her, speak to her direct. He would say : 
“A-chon-ho-ah, I have come at last. Deceive 
the light for which you have so long waited.” 

What joy would be in her heart then! and 
how eagerly she would go forward to meet him, 
even though it were up the toilsome mountain 
slope 1 


** Is Dau-ka-ye Really Coming ? ” 159 

To-day, as she lay upon the grassy knoll 
with her eyes fixed upon the mountain and 
thinking these thoughts, she was so absorbed 
that she did not notice the approach of any 
one until a voice close beside her said : What 
are you watching ? ” 

A-chon-ho-ah turned her head quickly, with 
a little start. There at her elbow stood Wanda. 

“I was watching the mountain.” 

“ Why, what do you see there to make you 
look so closely ? ” 

“Come, sit down here with me and I will 
tell you.” 

As she spoke, A-chon-ho-ah drew herself to 
a sitting posture, and as Wanda took the place 
indicated beside her, A-chon-ho-ah clasped 
the hand of her little playmate in hers. 

“ I was thinking of one who is soon to 
come,” she said, speaking slowly and earnestly, 
“of Dau-ka-ye, the Prince of Light, of whom 
the missionary told us, and of whom we have 
read in the little Testaments. You remember, 
Wanda?” 

“ Oh, yes,” cried Wanda, eagerly. “I could 
never forget that ! But you have not told me 
why you were watching the mountain.” 

“I will now. It seems to me that it is where 
Dau-ka-ye is first to appear, up there where 
the flowers are so beautiful and that ledge 


160 How A-chon-Jio-ah Found the Light. 

looks like a throne,” pointing towards it as 
she spoke. “ Is it not lovely ? ” 

“Yes,” said Wanda, “it is beautiful. Oh, 
do you really suppose that he will come 
there ? ” her eyes glowing with excitement. 

“I really do. It is so near the clouds, he 
will only have to step right down from them.” 

“ But,” said Wanda, after a pause, “it seems 
that some one like Dau-ka-ye has already 
come. I heard my father say so. There is one 
among the Sioux who says he has come to be 
the Saviour of the Indians.” 

“I do not beheve he is really Dau-ka-ye,” 
said A-chon-ho-ah, positively. 

“Why do you think he is not ? ” 

“ Because he does not do or talk as the mis- 
sionary has told us that Dau-ka-ye would. This 
one seems to be so cruel. It is said that when 
he comes he will put an end to all the white 
people.” 

“That is the reason my father likes him,” 
said Wanda. “ Oh, it does seem too bad that 
my father cannot like the white people, at least 
some of them. There are the missionary and 
his wife and his daughter and the httle boy; 
yes, and Mr. Fred and Dr. Holly, and — 
and — A-chon-ho-ah,” suddenly, “is Mr. Andres 
white?” 

“ Oh, yes, Wanda, I believe that he is, though 


**Is Dau-ka-ye Really Coming ? *’ 161 

he is not so white as the missionary and the 
others. Still, he is not an Indian.” 

“Well, I’d hate awfully to see any of them 
hurt, especially Mr. Andres.” 

“ So would I,” assented A-chon-ho-ah. “ Oh ! 
I’d hate it so much ! And this makes me hope 
that the one who is really among the Sioux is 
not Dau-ka-ye.” 

“But the Indians all think he is, and they 
are making great preparations for his coming. 
There is to be a dance at our camp to-night.” 

“Yes, I know. My father is to attend. I 
heard him tell my mother to get his war things 
ready. Oh ! I do wonder if this really is Dau- 
ka-ye ! ” 

“You said that it was not,” returned Wanda, 
looking at her in wonder. 

“I hope it is not. Of course I cannot really 
tell.” 

“But you said you did not really believe it 
was Dau-ka-ye,” persisted Wanda. 

“Yes, I believe it is not, I do, really; but, 
then, I do not know. Oh ! no, no, no ! I cannot 
believe it is really Dau-ka-ye ! ” she continued, 
passionately ; “ I don’t want to believe it, for it 
is so unlike!” 

“ Was not Dau-ka-ye to bring a Hght ? ” asked 
Wanda, suddenly. 

“ Yes, a great and beautiful light.” 

11 


162 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

“Well, this one among the Sioux has brought 
the light. I heard my father tell of it. It is 
hke a circle of fire, and it is about him every 
time he appears.” 

Here was the same thing her own father had 
told her. This, more than any other account 
of the new Messiah, perplexed A-chon-ho-ah’s 
loving, faithful heart. This surely was a myS' 
tery she could not fathom. If the new Messiah 
was not really Dau-ka-ye, how came he by the 
hght, and such a grand and brilliant hght as 
was pictured? 

A-chon-ho-ah was destined to see and hear 
much with reference to the new Messiah that 
night at the dance; for not only the men at- 
tended the dance, but also women and children. 
Indeed, the whole Indian community contem- 
plated being present. 

So great was the crowd that had already 
gathered long ere nightfall, that it was at length 
decided to hold the revels in a kind of glen, a 
half-mile or so without the camp. The Indians 
assembled in such throngs that it was difiicult 
to clear a place large enough for the dance to 
be held ; but, by dint of hard work and constant 
pushing and driving on the part of those who 
had the arrangements in hand, this was finally 
accomplished. 

In the centre of the glen a wooden image 


Dau-ka-ye Really Coming f'' 163 


was set up. This was supposed to represent 
the Messiah. The figure was draped in bufifalo 
robes, and bedecked with a glitter of .beads, 
fringe, brass buttons, shells, and bits of colored 
glass. There were also many shining pieces of 
tin. One of these was so painted as to repre- 
sent a great sun. This was immediately above 
the head of the image. The head itself was 
adorned with eagle feathers. Across the brow 
there was a strip of buckskin, handsomely em- 
broidered with beads, and set at intervals with 
large brass buttons that had been burnished 
until they shone almost as the sun’s rays. Cer- 
tainly they would flash with unusual brilliance 
in the firelight. 

Just behind this image there was erected a 
large furnace in the shape of a horse-shoe. 
This was kept aglow with red-hot coals, two 
of the Indians constantly replenishing the 
fire. 

When everything was in readiness for the 
dance, three medicine men approached, and 
took their places near the image. They had 
no clothing, save a waist-cloth, and a blanket 
fastened about the neck, which fell behind hke 
the folds of a robe. Every particle of the skin 
that was visible was brilliantly besmeared with 
paint in startling figures. Their faces were un- 
usually forbidding. In their hands they car- 


164 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

ried rattle-gourds and wands, in one end of 
which were stuck clumps of eagle feathers. 

After burning in a pan something that flashed 
up like powder, and turning every now and 
then toward the image and prostrating them- 
selves, the medicine men signified their willing- 
ness to have the dance begin. About three 
hundred Indians now approached, and began 
to form themselves into a circle. Like the 
medicine men, they were but scantily clothed. 
They had the waist-cloth, and a blanket or a 
shawl falling down their shoulders. Many of 
them, however, did not have the robe, and 
wore nothing save the waist-cloth. 

The dance, but a slow movement at first, 
soon grew to a mad, wild revel. They threw 
their bodies about into all kinds of horrible 
contortions, howled like savage beasts, bowed 
and knelt and shouted to the image, and even 
flung themselves toward it. Some tore the 
eagle feathers from their heads, and, twining 
them about with strands plucked from the hair, 
threw them toward the feet of the image. AU 
this time the medicine men were rattling the 
gourds and beating upon two huge tom-toms 
that had been carried to them. 

On the outside, in groups, were gathered the 
women and children. Huge bonfires were 
blazing in every direction. Around some of 


Dau-ka-ye Really Coming?"' 165 


tliem, women were preparing a feast for the 
dancers. 

Suddenly, in the very midst of the din, 
A-chon-ho-ah heard a voice close beside her 
say: “ This is too bad ! ” 

Turning, there was Mr. Andres. 

“You do not like the dance, Mr. Andres?” 
A-chon-ho-ah inquired. 

“No, my little friend, I do not.” 

“Why not, Mr. Andres?” 

“Because it is bad, all bad.” 

“ But the dance is in honor of him who says 
that he is the Messiah, and who is soon to 
come among us,” returned A-chon-ho-ah, sur- 
prised that Mr. Andres should use the words 
that he had used. 

“That makes it all the worse, my little friend. 
This pretended Messiah is but an earthly man, 
and a false one at that.” 

“Oh, Mr. Andres, do you really think that? ” 

“ I know it, A-chon-ho-ah. The real Messiah 
has not come yet, as he promised he would. 
When he does, it will not be in this way, as 
this man who pretends to be the Messiah has 
come.” 

“How will it be, Mr. Andres?” inquired 
A-chon-ho-ah, her face fuU of the deepest in- 
terest, her eyes wide open, and earnestly re- 
garding him. 


166 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

“ In the clouds, with his holy angels wdth him, 
and in a great blaze of glorious hght where all 
can see.” 

“Oh, I said it ! I said it! ” and A-chon-ho-ah 
clasped her hands together, while her face fairly 
glowed. “Oh, Mr. Andres, I knew he would 
come in that way. There is a place over yon- 
der in the mountain that is just like a throne, 
and the clouds come almost down to it, and it 
is so lovely all around it ! Oh, I just know that 
is where Dau-ka-ye is first to appear 1 ” 

Mr. Andres smiled, and laid his hand gently 
upon her head. “Far better think this way 
than that^'' pointing to the circle of wildly 
swaying Indians as he spoke. “Oh, this thing 
worries me so 1 and I fear it will bring trouble 1 ” 
He spoke* now as though he were talking to 
himself, and were oblivious of those around 
him. “When I first heard it, I did not think 
it so bad as reported, but thought I’d come 
and see. Now I find it even worse than the 
report.” 

“You are vexed, Mr. Andres,” said Wanda 
at this moment, coming nearer to him. 

“Yes, my httle friend.” 

“ You do not like the dance? ” 

She had asked him the same question that 
A-chon-ho-ah had. 

“No, my little friend, I do not.” 


“Z? Dau-ka-ye Really Coming ? ” 167 

“Then, will you not speak to the Indians 
and tell them so ? ” 

“No, Wanda, I must not. It would only 
make them angry for me to interfere.” 

“ But I beheve they would listen to you^ Mr. 
Andres.” 

“No, Wanda, they would not listen to any 
one, just now! Do you not see how excited 
they are ? ” 

“ And no wonder, Mr. Andres I ” cried Wanda, 
her thoughts running away now in another chan- 
nel, and her own young heart catching some- 
what the spirit of the scene. “Why, don’t you 
know it is a great man in whose honor they are 
dancing ? ” 

“What kind of a great man, Wanda?” 

“ Oh, one who calls himself the Messiah. 
He is now over among the Sioux, but he is 
coming here. My father says he is likely to 
come at any time.” 

“What does this great man propose to do, 
Wanda?” 

“Oh, he will make the Indians great and 
powerful like himself. He will give them all 
their lands back, and there will not be any one 
who can ever conquer them again.” 

“ But what is to become of those who are not 
Indians, Wanda?” and now Mr. Andres bent 
his eyes earnestly upon the face of his Httle 


168 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

friend. Her own eyes dropped, and she ap- 
peared for a few moments to be regarding the 
ground. 

“ I do not just know, Mr. Andres. I — I be- 
lieve my father said there would none of them 
be left alive.” 

“And would my little friend care to do honor 
to a Messiah who would be so cruel as that ? ” 

“No, Mr. Andres, I could not. I told my 
mother so, and my father heard it, and was 
very, very angry. He gave me five blows 
with the quirt for speaking the words. He 
hates all the white peopie. That is because he 
does not know how good some of them really 
are.” 

“ But my little friend knows, and, therefore, 
she cannot beheve in a Messiah who would be 
so cruel as to destroy them just because of the 
hatred of the Indians.” 

“Oh, Mr. Andres, that was what made me 
feel so bad about it!” 

It was A-chon-ho-ah who spoke these words. 
She had remained silent during the conversa- 
tion between Mr. Andres and Wanda, but now 
felt that she must speak. 

“It was all so different from what the mis- 
sionary had said to us,” she continued. “ The 
dear Dau-ka-ye of whom he told us was to be 
BO gentle and so kind.” 


“ Is Dau-ka-ye Really Coming f ” 169 


“So he is,” returned Mr. Andres. “Oh, my 
httle friends,” he continued, earnestly, “keep 
your trust in this Dau-ka-ye, who is yet to 
come ! ” 

“ Oh, is he really, really coming, Mr. Andres? 
and can there be no mistake ? ” 

A-chon-ho-ah’s eyes glowed hke stars as she 
asked the question. 

“ There is no mistake, httle friend ; he is 
really coming.” 

“i^d when, Mr. Andres ? ” 

It was Wanda who asked the question now. 

“Ah ! that we do not know. It may be years 
or months ; may be only days. For all we 
know he might come to-morrow.” 

“Oh, Mr. Andres, how glorious that would 
be!” 

The tears of sudden joy in A-chon-ho-ah’s 
eyes made the stars glow all the brighter as 
she said these words. 

“Would my httle friend be ready to meet 
him?” 

Mr. Andres’ voice was low and grave as he 
asked this question. 

“,Eeady in what way, Mr. Andres ? ” 

“Does she feel that she truly loves Dau- 
ka-ye, that she wants a heart all gentleness 
hke his, that she does not wish evil to a single 
person or creature on earth, and that Dau- 


170 How A-chon-ko-ah Found the Light, 

ka-ye’s coming would give her greater joy than 
anything else ? ” 

“Oh, yes, Mr. Andres, I do believe I feel all 
just that way.” 

“Then my little friend is ready; but she 
must go on growing in these sweet graces and 
striving to be more and more as Dau-ka-ye 
would have her to be. There is a sweet time 
in connection with Dau-ka-ye,” he continued, 
speaking now to the little girls, “that all Chris- 
tians love to keep. It is the anniversary of 
the birth of Dau-ka-ye, the day of the year on 
which he came as a little babe to earth. It is 
called Christmas. It will soon be here. It is 
just four moons now. ^ There are to be such 
beautiful exercises at the mission-house. I 
want you two httle girls to be there. If there 
is no other way, I will come for you myself.” 

“Oh, Mr. Andres, will you?” cried Wanda, 
almost dancing in her delight, while A-chon- 
ho-ah’s glowing eyes showed all the ioy she felt. 

“Yes, that I will.” 

“ But suppose our fathers will not let us go ? ” 
and now a cloud of sorrow came to hover above 
Wanda’s joy. 

“ I think I can manage that,” said Mr. Andres, 
with assurance. “I wiU get your mothers to 
go, too, and you can stay in the tepees with 


* In Indian language a moon means a month. 


Dau-ka-ye Really Coming V' 171 

some of jour friends ; or it may be,” he added, 
“that jour fathers will decide to move up to 
the Agency during that issue.” 

“Yes, maybe they will,” said Wanda. “We 
go every now and then.” 

“At any rate,” continued Mr. Andres, “you 
must be at the mission -house Christmas. There 
will be such a beautiful tree, with presents on 
it, and the missionary will tell again the story 
of Dau-ka-ye, of his coming to earth, of the 
beautiful star that told of his birth, and of the 
wise men who followed it till they came to where 
the baby was. And there will be a star to 
represent the real star, and ever so many beau- 
tiful things.” 

“Oh, that will be lovely!” cried Wanda, 
while A-chon-ho-ah, too, expressed her joy 
now in words. 

“Mr. Andres,” she asked, suddenly, “what 
day did you say it would be? What is it 
called?” 

“It is the day that is kept in memory of the 
birth of Christ — of Dau-ka-ye, the Son of God. 
It is called Christmas, because on that day 
many, many years ago he was born.” # 

“ How many, Mr. Andres?” 

“ Nearly nineteen hundred, my little friend.” 

“ Oh, so many as that f How long he has 
been in coming back ! Mr. Andres,” wistfully, 


172 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

“ don’t you think that Dau-ka-ye will surely 
come soon now ? ” 

“ Maybe so, A-chon-ho-ah.” 

“Oh,” she cried, suddenly, “it would be such 
a beautiful time for him to come while they 
were talking about him and keeping his birth- 
day ! Do you not think so, Mr. Andres ? ” 

“Yes, a beautiful and an appropriate time, 
indeed.” 

The excitement of the dance had by this time 
very nearly worn itself out. Many had fallen 
from sheer exhaustion. Only a hundred or so 
remained in the circle of dancers. These had 
drawn close up around the image, and seemed 
determined to bring the revels to a close in as 
great a burst of adoration to that senseless 
figure as it was within the power of human 
beings to give. Some of the scenes were both 
horrible and disgusting. 

Unable to endure the sight longer, Andres 
turned away heartsick. His soul was yearning 
over this people. How he longed to lead them 
in the true way ; to point them to the true God, 
the one and only Messiah! He resolved that 
he would do all that he could as soon as the 
dancers had dispersed and broken into groups ; 
that he would let no opportunity pass for a 
word in season. 

A-chon-ho-ah, too, felt sad and heartsick. 


Uau-ka-ye Heally Coming?''' 173 


Like Andres, she had been overcome by those 
last horrible scenes. There were strange 
thoughts striving to assert themselves as she 
turned her head so as to shut out the terrible 
sights. Could this be right, this mad, wild, sick- 
ening revel? Could these exhibitions really 
please one so gentle and so lovely as the real 
Dau-ka-ye had been pictured? But soon her 
thoughts were wandering far, far away from the 
scene around her. In body A-chon-ho-ah was 
there, amid the revels of the Indian camp, but 
in spirit she was with Dau-ka-ye on the moun- 
tain. Was he really coming? Were all these 
things she heard of him true? Did he love 
every one — the weak as well as the strong, the 
poor as well as the rich, the aged as well as the 
young ; man, woman, child ; Indian and white 
man alike? Oh, what a glorious Dau-ka-ye 
he was, to have a heart so big as that! 

A-chon-ho-ah’s thoughts went on and on, 
soaring upward, ever reaching out towards 
Dau-ka-ye, wandering, speculating, longing. 
Suppose he did decide to come on the day that 
they were going to hold those beautiful ser- 
vices in memory of him ? Oh, what a grand 
time that would be for him to come I 


CHAPTEK IX. 

ALAS! POOR WANDA! 

T he Indians went on holding their dances, 
despite the warnings of the Government 
Agent. The exhibitions had grown to be of so 
revolting a nature, and the Indians had be- 
come so demoralized through the excitement 
connected with them, that the Government 
Agent realized that it was high time for him to 
take matters into his own hands, so far as he 
could.^ 

The Indians were angered by the orders re- 
ceived, and declared that they would give trou- 
ble if they were disturbed ; that they had be- 
gun the dances with the determination to keep 
them up until the new Messiah made his ap- 
pearance, and this they intended to do. They 
further declared that they would fight ere they 
would give up the dances. 

While things were in this shape, dark clouds 
began to gather over the home of our little 
friend Wanda. Up to this time, though she 

^ The scenes in the Territory attendant upon what was 
known as the Messianic craze are still fresh in the minds 
of many of my readers, I know. 

174 


Alas! Poor Wanda! 


175 


had now and then received some sharp blows 
from her father’s quirt, Wanda had been quite 
a happy little girl. She had played, hke other 
Indian children, with her dolls and wooden 
toys and bead- work. Then, she had the cutest 
little cradle for her dolly, a real Indian cradle, 
all covered with shells, and bits of brass, and 
beads, and painted, yes, really painted ! There 
was a little strap to the cradle to go over Wan- 
da’s head, and she carried her dolly hung over 
her back, just as her mother had carried her 
when she was a little, solemn-looking, blinking 
baby. Wanda had her own httle tent, too, a 
real canvas tent, and she pitched it wherever 
she wished, and set up her housekeeping in it. 
They had grand times indeed, she and A-chon- 
ho-ah, when the latter came to visit her. Be- 
sides the dolly, and the cradle, and the wooden 
toys, and the tent, there was also a wonderful 
puppy, a sure-enough pnppy, very fat and 
very wide-awake. Wanda would often roll the 
puppy in her shawl, and carry it at her back 
like a baby. Then, too, there was a pet coyote 
that was very gentle and obedient, and would 
sit very still, with quite a grave face, when they 
were taking tea in the tepee. Sometimes Wanda 
would place the pnppy on the coyote’s back 
for a ride, to which the coyote never made the 
least objection. But, best of all, there was her 


176 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

darling pony. Such races as she and A-chon- 
ho-ah had! and so many, many rides for 
pleasure 1 

Wanda was still a child in years and a child 
at heart — a simple, gentle httle creature. Alas 1 
that the custom among her people should be to 
make women of such as she! 

One afternoon Wanda and A-chon-ho-ah 
had been for a long ride on their ponies. The 
sun was setting ere they returned. A-chon- 
ho-ah rode by the camp of Wanda, as it was 
on her way home. As Wanda dismounted near 
her father’s tepee, she bade her friend a gay 
good-bye. She little dreamed how soon her 
gaiety was to be changed to sorrow. 

As she was standing by her pony, the flap of 
the tepee was raised, and her father came out. 
He seemed to be looking for her. As he caught 
sight of her, he said. ‘‘Go and stake your 
pony, Wanda, and then come here; I’ve some- 
thing to say to you.” 

Watch-e-ca-da spoke with unusual gentle- 
ness, and she wondered what could be the 
matter. But she did not stop to ask questions. 
Little Indian girls knew better than to do that. 
Only the boys thus venture to try their fathers’ 
patience. She went and staked the pony as 
bidden, and then returned to her father. 

“ Har-we-poy-er is within the tent and wants 


Alas! Poor Wanda! 


177 


you,” he said, as soon as she came up to 
him. 

“ Wants me, father ? ” 

“ Yes, he has come to take you home to his 
tepee as his wife.” 

Wanda burst into tears. Too well she knew 
what this meant. She had again and again 
seen the little Indian girls taken away as wives. 
But, somehow, she never seemed to think this 
would be her fate. But now it had really 
come. And to think the one with whom she 
had to go was really this old man, Har-we- 
poy-er, more than six times her age, and coarse 
and forbidding. He was cruel, too, so Wanda 
had heard many times. 

“Oh, father,” cried Wanda, clinging to him, 
“ you will not let me go ? ” 

“I must, my daughter, Har-we-poy-er is 
rich. He has many ponies. It will be a great 
chance for you. Not many little girls have such.” 

“ But, oh, father, it will break my heart. I 
cannot live with Har-we-poy-er. He is old, 
and ugly, and cruel. Oh, father, dear father^ 
do not ask me to go away from you and my 
mother, and my brothers and sisters. Oh let 
me stay with you. I will be your very slave if 
only you will. I will do more than I have ever 
done, I will go for you and do for you as long 
as I can crawl. Oh, father, let me stay! ” 

12 


178 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

Watch-e-ca-da was not a very hard-liearted 
parent, though he was often quite a stern one. 
The sight of his little girl clinging to him, sob- 
bing as though her heart would break and 
entreating him not to send her away from him, 
even promising to be his slave if he would not, 
touched Watch-e-ca-da deeply. 

What need was there, after all, to give her to 
this old man, at least for the present? If he 
really wanted her he could wait a year or two. 

“Dry your tears, my daughter,” he said, 
“and we will go into the tepee and see what 
can be done to send Har-we-poy-er away.” 

But Har-we-poy-er seemed determined not 
to be sent away. He first tried persuasion, 
then threats and scoldings. He had come for 
AYanda, he declared, and Wanda he meant to 
have. 

“Do you not see that my daughter’s heart 
is quite weak towards you?” said Watch-e- 
ca-da, a little sternly. “Had you not better 
wait?” 

“Wait? No; Har-we-poy-er does not want 
to wait.” 

“But suppose that you must! Do you not 
see how it is ? The child does not want to go, 
and I shall not force her, at least not now. 
Take my advice and go. You can pome 
again.” 


Alas! Poor Wanda! 


179 


Har-we-poy-er seemed to consider this as 
well meant. After a pause he said : Yes, I 
go ; but I surely come again. In two moons I 
return. Then you go with me to my tent,” 
this to Wanda, with an emphatic shake of the 
head to accompany it. 

For answer she turned away with a shud- 
der, and buried her face on her father’s 
arm. 

The old man went away, pausing at the en- 
trance to give one long, backward look. As he 
did so he took a handsome pipe from his belt, 
held it towards Watch-e-ca-da, and laid it upon 
the ground. Then he lifted the curtain of the 
tepee and was gone, but all felt sure they would 
see him again soon. 

Wanda broke down again and had another 
cry when she attempted to picture this scene 
to A-chon-ho-ah. 

“Oh!” said A-chon-ho-ah, her tears falling 
in sympathy and her arms just longing to be 
clasped around her playmate, “you just can’t 
marry that ugly, cruel, old man! Why, he is 
twice as old as your father. Surely your father 
will not make you ! ” 

“ He will not now, for he has promised me he 
will not ; but he may after awhile,” said Wanda, 
despondently. “ Oh, it is just terrible to think 
of! I know he will beat me nearly to death. 


180 How A-chon-Jio-ah Found the Light. 

He has had several wives already, and one of 
them they say he killed.” 

“Yes, I have heard about it. O "Wanda, 
surely your father will not let him have you ! ” 

“He says he will not now. But Har-we- 
poy-er is very rich. He has many ponies. He 
will give my father choice of three of them, and 
my father loves ponies.” 

“But surely not well enough to give you 
away for them ! ” 

“He may. Many fathers give their little 
girls away just to get somebody to take care of 
them.” 

“But that is where they do not love their 
little girls. Your father loves you.” 

“ Yes, I know that he does, or he would have 
let me go when Har-we-poy-er came. But if 
Har-we-poy-er comes again, and comes with 
the ponies, he may let me go.” 

“Oh, get your mother to beg him, and you 
beg him too, and I will speak to my father and 
ask him to say something too. Your father 
thinks a heap of him.” 

“ Yes, I know that he does. Oh, I do hope 
my father will not let me go ! And yet I know 
that many of the little Indian girls, some who 
are no older than I am, have to go and be the 
wives of these old men. Oh, it is dreadful! 
The white people don’t do this way. I asked 


Alas! Poor Wanda! 


181 


Mr. Andres once about it, and lie said they 
didn’t.” 

“No, they do not. How many ways they 
have that are different from ours ! and they are 
ways that are so much the better, every one of 
them. Their women wait until they are grown 
before they marry, and then they need not 
marry unless they want to.” 

“I do wish it could be so with us. O 
A-chon-ho-ah, it is so much nicer to be little 
girls and play with our dolls and puppies, and 
to ride on our ponies, and to have the good 
times we do ! Oh, so much better, than to be 
married and acting like grown women, even if 
our husbands were not old and ugly, and 
cruel ! ” 

“ That it is,” said A-chon-ho-ah, with a sigh. 
She did not know how soon the sad fate that 
threatened Wanda might overtake her. Her 
father was kind, she knew, but then even the 
kindest fathers were not proof against some of 
the Indian customs. 

Strange to say, the two httle girls had not 
gone far after this conversation when they met 
old Har-we-poy-er on his pony. He scowled at 
them, especially at poor Wanda, and seemed 
on the point of reining up his pony beside 
hers. Then, apparently changing his mind, he 
rode onward. 


182 How A-clion-ho-ah Found the Light. 

Wanda thought of him that night and the 
scowl he had given her, and she could not 
sleep for many long hours. She lay awake 
watching the moonlight steal in through the 
opening of the tent. Then as she recalled 
what the old man had said about returning in 
two moons, she covered her head and sobbed 
herself to sleep. 

In a few days from this time there was great 
sorrow indeed in the tepee. Even Wanda’s 
previous sorrow paled beside this one. Her 
little brother, Watch-e-ca-da’s pet and pride, 
was very, very sick. They had done all they 
knew for the httle one. They had even taken 
him to the sweat tent, where were the rocks 
heated red. There they had laid him upon a 
bed of straw, and, pouring water upon the rocks 
to produce steam, had gone and left him, and 
shut him up tight within the house, so as to 
give him the benefit of the steam. Then, even 
while his httle body was dripping with the 
perspiration, they had borne him to the stream 
and there dipped him in. Enough to have 
killed him instead of curing him, I am sure 
you will think ; but the Indians beheved 
otherwise. Despite all these things, the hot 
fever kept on, and the little one grew worse 
and worse every day. The poor mother then 
put all the charms she could around the bed, 


Alas! Poor Wanda! 


183 


or hung them up on the tepee, near the sick 
boj. The medicine men, too, came and made 
their horrid noises and went through their dis- 
gusting performances, but nothing seemed to 
do any good. 

Over on the other side of Mt. Scott there 
Hved a wonderful medicine man, Wich-e-tos-ka 
by name. He was the greatest of all the In- 
dian doctors, for he had made cures where all 
others had failed. He gave medicine as well 
as used charms, and it was without doubt in 
the former that all the virtue lay. 

When Watch-e-ca-da saw that nothing that 
had yet been done for his boy effected any 
good, he said: “I will go to Wich-e-tos-ka’s 
tent and talk.” 

That meant he would go and beg Wich-e- 
tos-ka to come ; for Wich-e-tos-ka w^as a 
great medicine chief indeed, and did not often 
leave his tent to go and see patients. They 
had to come to him. 

So Watch-e-ca-da saddled his fleetest pony 
and set off at once for Wich-e-tos-ka’s tent. 
It was right over the mountain and ten miles 
away, but the journey was soon made. 

Going into the tent, Watch-e-ca-da seated 
himself upon the ground, took out the hand- 
some pipe Har-we-poy-er had given him, lit it, 
drew a few whiffs, and then handed it to 


184 IIow A-chon-lio-ah Found the Light. 

Wich-e-tos-ka. All this time not a word had 
been spoken. And the silence continued until 
Wich-e-tos-ka had had his smoke. Then he 
said : “ My friend, I can see that your heart is 
heavy and your eye is sad. What is it you 
want ? ” 

“ Chief, my little boy, the idol of my heart, 
is very, very sick. All that we know has been 
tried, and still no good has been done. He 
gets worse all the time. Go with me to my 
tent and make him laugh and play as he once 
did, and I will give you three ponies, three of 
the best I have.” 

Wich-e-tos-ka appeared to study this offer 
very carefully. Then he said : “If you will 
give me five ponies and the pipe,” stopping 
to intently regard its bowl, “ I will go.” 

“That is too much,” said Watch-e-ca-da, 
positively. “Three ponies are enough, espe- 
cially such ponies as I have to offer you.” 

“Wich-e-tos-ka does not move a step until 
you make it five ponies and the pipe,” the old 
man said, determinedly. 

“Well, then, take the ponies ! ” Watch-e-ca-da 
said, in despair. Anything to save the life of 
his precious boy! “But I do not know about 
the pipe,” hesitatingly. “It was given to me 
by Har-we-poy-er. If I let it go it may anger 
him.” 


Alas! Poor Wanda! 


185 


“The pipe must be mine,” said Wich-e- 
tos-ka, doggedly. 

“Well, then, take the pipe too!” cried poor 
Watch-e-ca-da, now almost beside himself with 
despair at the delay. “ Only come.” 

They mounted their ponies, and were soon 
speeding back towards Watch-e-ca-da’s tepee. 
As they neared it they heard a sound that 
struck terror to the heart of the poor father at 
least. It was the wail of the squaws. Was it 
possible that all was over ? Going in, Wich-e- 
tos-ka threw himself at once over the body of 
the child. He endeavored to force medicine 
down its throat, but, finding this impossible, had 
to resort to his charms and mummery. He 
opened the clothing and ran his hands aU over 
the child. Then he uttered horrid noises and 
burned a bit of iU-smelling stuff on a piece of 
tin. AU this time the poor mother and the 
squaws who had gathered kept up the death 
cries. In a few moments the child was dead ; 
and as Wich-e-tos-ka reluctantly announced 
this fact, the cries and screams of the women 
broke forth again with renewed force. The 
noise was terrible. 

Watch-e-ca-da’s grief was pathetic to witness. 
He bent over his chUd, took him in his arms, 
pressed him to his heart again and again, and 
then laid him down. He picked up the smaU, 


186 How A-cho7i~ho-ah Found the Light. 

thin hands and stroked them, pushed back the 
hair from his forehead, and laid his own cheek 
to that of his dead boy, and finally had to be 
torn from the body by those who had come to 
carry it to its burial. In the meantime Har- 
we-poy-er had entered the tepee. He carried 
in one hand a lot of child’s toys and in the 
other a handsome blanket. The toys he placed 
either in the. child’s hands or near him. Then 
he stepped back, waiting for those who had 
the body in charge to cord it into a bundle. 
When this was done, he wrapped the handsome 
blanket over it, pressing the whole to his heart 
as though it contained the dearest treasure he 
possessed in the world. Not only this, but he 
continued to chng to it, and to weep and to 
howl, until those who were starting to bury it 
had to force him away from it. As soon as this 
had been done, he fiung himself down upon the 
ground, kicking and screaming at the top of his 
voice. Then he sat up and beat his chest while 
the tears fiowed down his cheeks like rain, and 
his sobs seemed to issue from a heart that was 
broken. Thus he went on long after the other 
mourners, even the mother and father, had 
utterly exhausted themselves and relapsed into 
silence. Har-we-poy-er certainly had a power- 
ful pair of lungs, and he knew how to use 
them. Another thing that helped him was that 


Alas ! Poor Wanda ! 187 

he was undoubtedly using them for a pur- 
pose. 

When all the mourners in the tent save Har- 
we-poy-er had ceased their wailing, Watch-e- 
ca-da, as was the Indian custom, went around 
distributing presents. To one he gave a blan- 
ket, to another a shawl, to a third some trin- 
kets, and so on until all had received presents 
according as they had mourned. Last of all,' 
he came to Har-we-poy-er. 

“My friend,” he cried, “you have wept a 
great deal. You have mourned as none other 
here has mourned, save we who are bereft of 
our boy. Your heart is very sad for us, I can 
see, and your tears have been big and strong. 
Therefore my whole heart goes out to you, and 
it moves me to promise whatsoever you would 
ask.” 

Eash promise on Watch-e-ca-da’s part, as he 
seemed to realize a moment after, but it was too 
late then to retract. 

A cunning gleam came into Har-we-poy-er’s 
eyes. He stopped his sobs at once and dried 
his tears. Eising to his feet, he crossed the 
tent and placed his hand upon the shoulder of 
Wanda, who was crouched at her mother’s feet 
sobbing. 

“ Give me your daughter,” said Har-we- 
poy-er. “It is she that I want above every- 
thing else.” 


188 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

“O father!” cried Wanda, starting up. 
Even the grief for her dead little brother was 
for the moment forgotten in this dreadful thing 
that menaced her. 

“Be still, my daughter,” Watch-e-ca-da said, 
a little sternly, though there was no sternness 
in the eyes that now sadly regarded her. Then 
he said to Har-we-poy-er, “ It is not just that 
you should make such a claim as this. Will 
nothing else suit you ? ” 

“ No ; nothing else will.” 

“ I will give you one, two, three ponies.” 

“ I do not want the ponies. I want the girl.” 

“ Let me persuade you to change your mind.” 

“ You cannot. Remember your promise.” 

“ Yes, I have promised, and an Indian never 
goes back on his promise under such circum- 
stances as these. My daughter,” to Wanda, 
“ you must go with the old man.” 

For answer Wanda clung to her mother, cry- 
ing and entreating. 

“ Do not force her to go,” Tonka said, beseech- 

ingly- 

“I must,” returned Watch-e-ca-da, gloomily. 

“At least persuade the old man to wait a few 
months.” 

This Watch-e-ca-da strove to do, but Har- 
we-poy-er was inexorable. “She must go,” he 
declared, “ and go now.” 


Alas! Poor Wanda! 


189 


With these words he tore Wanda away from 
her mother, placed her in front of him on his 
pony, and galloped away from the camp. 

As she was still screaming, he placed his 
hand across her mouth, shook her, and declared 
fiercely, “If you do not shut up. I’ll beat you 
as you have never been beaten before ! ” 

Thus threatened, Wanda’s screams ceased, 
but her sobs continued all the way to Har-we- 
poy-er’s camp.^ 

Poor Wanda! she led a wretched existence 
after that. Har-we-poy-er had other squaws, 
and as she was the youngest, they made a 
drudge of her, though they did not dare abuse 
her in his presence, as he seemed quite proud 
of her. Yet he, too, was cruel, and ordered her 
about much as though she had been a dog. 

Night after night the httle Indian girl-wife lay 
awake, sobbing for her mother and the pleasant 
home she had left. She no longer had her 
dolls or playthings, not even the little pet 
puppy. All were left behind, and she must act 
as a woman now. Once, utterly unable to stand 
it a moment longer, she ran away and went to 
her mother. But she had not more than pil- 
lowed her head on that loving, sympathizing 

* This method of winning a child in marriage by being 
the loudest and most persistent mourner at the death of 
one of her family is quite common among the Indians. 


190 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

breast when she was snatched away again by 
the angry Har-we-poy-er, who gave her several 
sharp lashes with the quirt, and threatened to 
double them if ever she dared repeat the of- 
fence. 

When she met her little playmate a month or 
so after this, A-chon-ho-ah hardly knew her. 
She looked so thin and pale, and oh ! so sadly 
changed in every way. She was out on the 
prairie picking up sun-flower stalks for fuel 
when. A-chon-ho-ah rode by. A-chon-ho-ah 
could scarcely credit her own eyes. She had 
to look twice ere she could really believe it was 
Wanda. 

“Oh!” she cried, springing from her pony 
and catching Wanda in her arms. Her heart 
was too full for other words. She could only 
stand and gaze into Wanda’s face while the 
tears rolled down her cheeks. 

“ I thought my eyes had not told me true 1 ” 
she said, as soon as she could gain her speech. 
“ O Wand^, is it really you?” 

“Yes, it is Wanda,” the poor little child-wife 
said, pathetically. She had not the heart just 
then to add another word. 

“ Oh! what have they done to you? ” A-chon- 
ho-ah continued, turning Wanda’s face so that 
she could have a better view of it. Its drawn, 
pinched appearance almost made her scream. 


Alas ! Poor Wanda ! 


191 


How dreadful it was! Could this really be 
Wanda, the happy, light-hearted Wanda, with 
whom she had played only a few months be- 
fore? No, this surely could not be the Wanda 
who had swung her dolly to sl^ep in its cradle 
and carried her puppy in the shawl at her back. 
“O Wanda,” she repeated, “what have they 
done to you?” 

Wanda’s lips quivered, and her eyes fell 
under the searching gaze of her old playmate. 
Such suffering as she had undergone could not 
be put into words. 

“ Oh 1 I know they have almost killed you,” 
continued A-chon-ho-ah, “ I can see it without 
your teUing. Oh! what an old wretch that 
Har-we-poy-er must be! But there! I forgot 
that he was your — your husband.” 

Wanda shuddered, and drew herself together 
as though drawing away from some expected 
blow. 

“Wanda,” said A-chon-ho-ah, suddenly, 
“why do you not run away? Why do you not 
go back home ? ” 

“ I did once,” said poor Wanda, her tears fall- 
ing now at the remembrance, “but he followed 
me and brought me away, beating me besides.” 

“Oh! the wretch!” cried A-chon-ho-ah, 
clenching her fist. “ But where was your father, 
Wanda?” 


192 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

“ He was not there ; but if he had been, it 
would have been all the same, so my mother 
said. He would have been obliged to let me 
go. Har-we-poy-er owns me now.” 

“Owns you?” echoed A-chon-ho-ah, indig- 
nantly, “why that is the way they talk about 
ponies and dogs ! ” 

All of these words went to show that A-chon- 
ho-ah was a very spirited little Indian maiden 
indeed, and, so far, had luckily escaped any 
very deep insight into many of the more for- 
bidding customs of her people. In this respect 
fate had assuredly been kind to Our young 
friend A-chon-ho-ah. 

“Yes, I know,” returned Wanda, dejectedly ; 
“but that is the way Har-we-poy-er himself 
talks about it.” 

“ Oh, it is dreadful for you to be like this ! 
What can we do, Wanda ? ” 

“Nothing,” answered poor Wanda, even 
more dejectedly than before. “ I shall have to 
stay with Har-we-poy-er until he himself gives 
me back to my father or sells me.” 

“ Sells you ? ” cried A-chon-ho-ah, in horror. 

“ Yes ; it is often done that way, though I did 
not know it until Har-we-poy-er himself told 
me. He has sold one of his wives since I have 
been there.” 

A-chon-ho-ah held up her hands before her 


Alas ! Poor Wanda / 


193 


face, as though to shut out some dreadful thing. 
“ O Wanda,” she said, brokenly, “ all this is so 
terrible to hear ! How do you stand it ? Can 
nothing be done? Would not Har-we-poy-er 
let you come back if some one went to beg him 
and offered him ponies ? ” 

“ No ; my mother has already done that. 
Oh, how she did beg him ! And my father, too, 
has been to see him. Har-we-poy-er wants 
me, and he is going to keep me. That is what 
he says every time.” 

“Let me help you gather the sticks,” said 
A-chon-ho-ah, sadly. “ I will put them on my 
pony and take them to camp for you.” 

“ No, no,” remonstrated Wanda ; “ you must 
not do that. If Har-we-poy-er saw us he 
might beat me. He will not let anyone do the 
task he gives me.” 

“Wanda,” said A-chon-ho-ah, after a mo- 
ment, and speaking slowly and earnestly, “ all 
these terrible things you have told me make me 
see more and more how much better are the 
white people’s ways than the Indians.’ They 
never have anything hke this. And the hus- 
bands are so kind, and they do not marry little 
girls. 0 Wanda, it is dreadful to be as you 

f 

are ! 

“Oh, it is,” said poor Wanda; and now, 
utterly overcome, she threw herself upon the 
13 


194 How A’chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

groTind and burst into a passionate fit of weep- 
ing. 

A-cbon-bo-ah was alarmed. Sbe sat down 
beside ber, took ber bead in ber lap, and strove 
to tbe utmost of ber power to sootbe and com- 
fort ber. 

“O Wanda ! ” sbe said, “ dear Wanda, do not 
cry. It may all be right in a little while. Do 
you not remember that Dau-ka-ye is coming ? ” 
sbe said, joyously. “ Oh, be will make it all right 
when be comes, I know. Both Mr. Andres and 
tbe missionary said things would be so different 
when be came. He has such a great, big, kind 
heart. He will not see anyone suffer ; any- 
one, I mean, who tries to do as be wants them 
to do.” 

“ It is so long to wait for him ! ” said Wanda, 
piteously. “Ob, do you think be will ever 
come ? ” raising ber tear-stained face with a 
pathetic, beseeching look towards that of ber 
old playmate. 

“Yes, I feel sure that be will. Mr. Andres 
and tbe missionary say that be will, and they 
know. O Wanda, it may be that be will come 
now in a bttle while. Do you not remember 
what Mr. Andres told us about tbe beautiful 
things they were going to have on Dau-ka-ye’s 
birthday at tbe mission-house ? ” 

“ Ob, yes ! ” said poor Wanda, breaking down 


Alas ! Poor Wanda ! 


195 


again ; “ and Mr. Andres was to come for us. 1 
can’t go now,” and she burst into another fit of 
passionate weeping. “ Har-we-poy-er would 
never, never let me go. Oh, he is so cruel, and 
he hates the white people.” 

“Poor Wanda ! poor Wanda ! ” said A-chon- 
ho-ah, soothingly, and now her own tears were 
falling. “O Wanda, it is too bad! But I’ll 
tell you what I’ll do,” suddenly ; “ I’ll not go, 
either. I will stay here near you. Then you 
can meet me somewhere, and we’ll go to the 
mountains together that day. O Wanda, sup- 
pose we see Dau-ka-ye first, first of all! Oh, 
will not that be glorious? Then we can tell 
him all about it, what a dreadful time you have, 
Wanda, and all that. Oh, he’ll be so kind, so 
kind and pitying I Do not cry any more, 
Wanda. It will be all right when Dau-ka-ye 
comes 1 ” 

Oh 1 the pure, innocent, and unbounded trust 
of childhood! Would that older hearts might 
catch and know more of its sweetness ! 


CHAPTER X. 


TEE TIME DRAWING NEAR. 
-CHON-HO-AH saw Wanda again not 



long after this. She was driving some 
ponies to pasture, and seemed even more de- 
jected than at their former meeting. Har-we- 
poy-er had beaten her twice since, and had even 
gone so far as to threaten to sell her if she did 
not do more as he wished her to do. He gave 
her almost impossible tasks to perform — tasks 
she never could have gotten through with had 
it not been for the pity of one of the squaws. 
This woman had a kind, tender heart. She 
could not bear to see the child suffer, and so 
helped her all she could. 

But sometimes Har-we-poy-er seemed to get 
remorseful for the way he acted. Then he 
would be full of kindness and indulgence. He 
was really fond of the httle girl-wife, only he 
had the Indian nature, and, in its meanest and 
cruelest degree, the nature to tyrannize over 
the women of his camp, especially over the 
smaller and weaker ones. They were all his 
servants, so he considered them, and made to 
do as he said. So he used tongue and quirt 


196 


197 


The Time Drawing Near. 

and hand whenever he felt moved, and no In- 
dian on the reservation lorded it more over his 
wives than did Har-we-poy-er. He was fitful 
by temper, and poor little Wanda had expe- 
rienced all the extreme degrees of both cruelty 
and kindness. Alas! that the cruelty so far 
outweighed the kindness 1 

At this last meeting between the playmates, 
to which allusion has been made, they entered 
into plans for the watch they were to keep on 
Christmas day at the foot of the mountain. 
Wanda was to leave the camp as though she 
had gone to collect fuel or to give some atten- 
tion to the ponies, whichever was the more 
plausible excuse at the time. It might happen 
that Har-we-poy-er would be away from the 
camp, so that no excuse at all would be neces- 
sary. It often happened that he was away, 
sometimes for days together. 

Both of these young hearts were full of the 
coming of Dau-ka-ye. Oh! what a glad, 
blessed time it was to be ! The most joyful in 
all their lives. For then everything would be 
made straight; sorrow and pain and trouble 
would fiee away ; burdens would be taken from 
bending backs, and oh! what a glad, sweet, 
beautiful light would come into their fives, fill- 
ing all their hearts with its radiance. 

To Wanda the coming of Dau-ka-ye meant 


198 Uoxo A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 


far more than to A-chon-ho-ah, though to 
A-chon-ho-ah it meant a great deal, a very 
great deal, indeed. For Wanda was bowed be- 
neath a burden of sorrow and trouble and care ; 
Wanda knew the sharp stings of abuse and 
cruelty ; while, on the other hand, A-chon-ho-ah 
was a happy, light-hearted little girl, with kind 
parents and a pleasant home, though it was an 
Indian home. 

But, as has been said, Dau-ka-ye’s coming 
meant a great deal to A-chon-ho-ah — oh ! much 
indeed! It was not so much for herself, how- 
ever, though she longed ardently for it on her 
own account, as for her people. What a joy 
and a blessing it would be to them 1 Oh 1 there 
was so much that was hard and cruel in their 
hves. Dau-ka-ye’s coming would end all this, 
if only they would trust him. 

It would not be long now until Dau-ka-ye 
came, for surely he would come on that day 
which Mr. Andres said was to be made so beau- 
tiful for him. Yes, the time was drawing near, 
and oh! how A-chon-ho-ah’s heart leaped as 
she thought of it! 

But in the meantime something happened 
that took A-chon-ho-ah’s thoughts away from 
Wanda, and even from Dau-ka-ye for a while, 
but only for a httle while. 

One day A-chon-ho-ah’s mother sent her on 


199 


The Time Drawing Near. 

an errand that took her some seven or eight 
miles across the plains. 

It was now October, and the air was growing 
chilly, especially in the early mornings and late 
afternoons. But the crisp, cool air made the 
ride all the more enjoyable to A-chon-ho-ah. 
She threw her blanket back from her head 
and let her short hair stream in the wind as 
she rode along. 

The plains were very beautiful in their Octo- 
ber coloring, for the grasses, the taller ones, 
had now their richest shades of old gold and 
brown. Between these were the stretches of 
shorter blades, creeping close to the ground, 
and looking fresher and greener. Indeed, there 
were patches in moist, sheltered places that 
kept their greenness nearly the year round. It 
was to these the ponies and other stock liked 
to come, and it was here that they were to be 
found in little herds often until late in the win- 
ter season. But the . most beautiful sight was 
the flowers — rich, glorious clusters of wild flow- 
ers spangling the plains in every direction. 
Sometimes it would be only a tiny fleck of blue 
or crimson shining with the flash of a jewel 
from some clump of grass, or again many, 
many clusters running riotously over yards of 
space, and so flashing with color, often many 
intermingled, as to dazzle the eye, especially 
where the sun shone upon them. 


200 How A-cTion-ho-ah Found the Light. 

A-chon-ho-ah rode onward with a light and 
happy heart. She had had many beautiful 
thoughts of Dau-ka-ye that day. Mr. Andres 
had been to see them. So, too, had the mis- 
sionary. Her father had been at home this 
time, and A-chon-ho-ah could see that he was 
really pleased with the missionary, though he 
had treated him so coolly when he first came. 
But the missionary was one to make friends 
every time he had the chance; he was so 
kind and cheerful and pleasant, and seemed to 
know just what to say and how to say it. He 
talked to Ton-ke-a-bau about ponies, and pas- 
ture lands, and hunting, and the preparation of 
skins for the market, as though he had dealt 
with them all his life. Ton-ke-a-bau was greatly 
pleased that the missionary took such interest 
in these affairs. He was ready then to hear 
other things, and listened patiently while the 
missionary held services in the tepee. 

A-chon-ho-ah had had such a pleasant con- 
versation with Mr. Andres. It was all about 
the beautiful exercises that were to take place 
at the mission-house on the birthday of Dau- 
ka-ye. It was only about two moons off now, 
he told her. This brought Dau-ka-ye again very 
near to A-chon-ho-ah in thought. There, too, 
was the mountain looming up just behind her 
with its taU peak illumined with the October 


201 


The Time Drawing Near, 

sunlight. She turned her head every now and 
then to see it. There was the ledge, as imposing 
and suggestive as ever, and there, too, the car- 
pet of wild flowers flashing forth their beautiful 
colors. 

About five miles beyond her own camp 
A-chon-ho-ah had to pass one of the Apa- 
ches.’ It seemed only a temporary abode, for 
the horses were picketed near the wagons 
instead of being hobbled and turned out to 
graze. 

There was a stream of water near at hand, 
and running into it at right angles were several 
rain courses. These were now dry and the bot- 
toms filled with sand. In some places they were 
from three to four feet deep. As A-chon-ho-ah 
went to cross one of these she noticed an old 
squaw, about twenty or twenty-five feet away, 
scooping a hole in the sand. Something 
impelled A-chon-ho-ah to stop and watch 
her. As she did so she saw a bundle at the 
old woman’s feet, and then heard a feeble 
wail. 

“Why, it is a baby she has!” said A-chon- 
ho-ah to herself, with a little exclamation. 

The old woman heard the exclamation, and 
looked up quickly. 

“ What are you going to do? ” A-chon-ho-ah 
asked, riding nearer. 


202 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

She knew but little Apache, and so had to sup- 
plement her words with signs. 

“ I am going to bury the baby,” said the old 
woman, going on with her work of scooping a 
hole in the sand. 

“Why, it’s alive!” cried A-chon-ho-ah, in 
horror. 

“Yes, I know it is,” unconcernedly. 

“Oh! don’t do that!” begged A-chon-ho-ah, 
getting down from her pony and approaching 
the old woman. 

“But I must; it was born so,” putting her 
two forefingers together, “and must be gotten 
out ot the way.” 

A-chon-ho-ah knew that the old woman 
meant that the baby had been born one of 
twins. She had heard her mother say that 
there was a custom among the Indians, when 
twins were born, to put them out of the way, 
because it was believed that they brought ill 
luck to the family. Sometimes, when the mo- 
ther’s heart was very weak, and she desired to 
save one at least of her babies, she would put 
one to death, so as not to let her husband know 
that twins had been born. In some instances, 
and among some Indians, one of the babies 
was put to death so as to preserve good luck 
to the other ; for as long as both lived, neither 
would have good luck, so it was supposed ; and 


203 


The Time Drawing Near. 

even if both lived to be grown, one would die 
just as soon as the other. 

“ But you surely will not bury it alive ! ” pro- 
tested A-chon-ho-ah. 

“It makes no difference. The breath will be 
gone as soon as it is smothered in the sand.” 

“But, oh! this seems very, very cruel! Must 
the poor little baby really die?” 

“Yes, it must, for the sake of the other. Its 
father is gone. It was born the day he left. 
He has been away five days. He will be back 
to-day, so the baby must die. The mother kept 
it longer than she ought to have done.” 

“And are you going to bury it in the sand ? 
bury it while it is alive ? ” 

“Yes,” said the old woman, shortly. She 
was getting out of patience with A-chon-ho-ah. 
She did not want to be disturbed in this way. 
She wanted to get through as quickly as possi- 
ble. Besides, what did it matter to this slip of 
a girl, anyhow! 

“Oh! please don’t! Please don’t bury it in 
the sand ! Please don’t smother it in that way ! ” 

A-chon-ho-ah was now nearly beside herself 
with distress, especially as she saw the old 
woman lift the baby and lay it in the hole that 
she had scooped in the sand. 

“Oh! give it to me! Give it to me!” she 
cried, extending her hands. 


204 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

‘‘ Give it to you ! ” echoed the old woman. 

*‘Yes, give it to me; I will take it.” 

The old woman looked at her a moment as 
though she thought that she was surely crazy. 
Then she asked: “What will you do with 
it?” 

“ I will take it to my own camp and give it 
to my mother. I know that she will care for it ; 
she has a good, kind heart. She would rather 
do this than see it killed. Oh! do give me 
the baby 1 See,” a sudden impulse seeming to 
strike her, as her hand found its way to a little 
purse at her belt, “here are two silver pieces,” 
holding up two half-dollars as she spoke, “ they 
are all my own. I will give them to you if only 
you will let me have the baby.” 

“If I give it to you,” she asked, “will you 
go straight home with it, and not let anyone 
know where you got it?” 

“Oh, yes,” returned A-chon-ho-ah, “I can 
promise that, and I will keep the promise ; only 
I have to go to another camp on an errand for 
my mother ; but I will be sure not to tell any- 
one there where I got the baby.” 

“ Then give me the money,” said the old wo- 
man, extending her hand, “and you can have 
the baby. It is a little girl, and* is only five 
days old. Be very careful with it if you want 
to keep it, and don’t ride too hard, or you may 


The Time Drawing Near, 205 

shake the breath out of it. It hasn’t much to 
spare now.” 

So saying, the old woman reached down, 
took the baby, who was now crying feebly, and 
held it towards A-chon-ho-ah. 

A-chon-ho-ah dropped the silver into the old 
woman’s hand, and signed to her to hold the 
baby until she mounted her pony. Then she 
placed the baby in the folds of her shawl at her 
back, as she had so often seen her mother do, 
and as she herself had sometimes carried her 
little brother and sister. 

A-chon-ho-ah felt a strange thrill at her heart 
as she rode away with the helpless baby at her 
back. It had now ceased its wails, and seemed 
to realize that care and protection were near. 
A-chon-ho-ah had saved its life. She had 
bought it with a price, with her own money. 
It was now hers. What should she do with it? 
That question bothered her for a while. Her 
mother would help her, she knew. She would 
suggest something. She felt sure, too, that her 
mother would say that she had done just right 
in saving the life of the baby. 

What a horrible thing it was that the old 
woman had been about to do ! to bury the little 
baby alive! A-chon-ho-ah had heard of such 
things, but she had never witnessed them be- 
fore. Luckily for her, her home had been, for 


206 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

tlie most part, among those Indians who were 
not so cruel and degraded as the majority of 
their race. She had seen many things to shock 
her and to make her heart sad, it is true, but 
she had not seen the worst. Many things, too, 
the loving care of her father and mother had 
kept from her ; but now she had come face to 
face with one of the crudest practices of her 
race. She had seen a httle baby, a weak, help- 
less creature, about to be smothered alive in 
the sand, and for no other reason than because 
it had been so unfortunate as to come into the 
world one of twins. In a white home one baby 
would have been as eagerly welcomed as the 
other. Indeed, much joy would have been 
made over the birth of both. The father would 
have been all smiles and happiness, and so 
would the mother. 

A-chon-ho-ah was certainly proud of the 
baby. She felt a tender, peculiar feeling 
toward it. This was doubtless because she 
had saved its life. She kept turning her head 
so much to glance over her shoulder at the 
little thing nestled so trustingly at her back 
that she made her neck hurt with the effort. 

She did not hnger long at the camp where 
she went on the errand for her mother. Some 
noticed the baby, others did not. Those who 
did paid very little heed to it. It was a com- 


207 


The Time Drawing Near, 

mon sight to see mothers no older than A-chon- 
ho-ah, or at least but a little older. The one 
or two who knew A-chon-ho-ah well and who 
asked questions were told that it was a baby a 
woman had given her to take back to the camp 
with her. So they thought that A-chon-ho-ah 
had simply become the means of transporting a 
baby from one family to the other. 

A-chon-ho-ah was glad to get away from the 
camp, and to turn her pony’s head in the direc- 
tion of home. She paid close heed to the old 
woman’s injunction not to ride too fast, for fear 
of jolting the baby. She took care not to return 
by way of the Apache qamp. She did not know 
but that the old woman might have regretted 
the bargain by this time and be there ready to 
take the baby back. The very thought made 
A-chon-ho-ah’s heart give a lejip. She did not 
want to give the baby up. Even in this short 
while it had become very dear to her. Doubt- 
less it was the sweetness of possessorship. All 
her hfe long, so far back as she could remem- 
ber, A-chon-ho-ah had been very fond of dolls. 
It had been her greatest dehght to play with 
them, to lay them in her little board cradles, to 
swing them to her back, and to make beautiful 
clothes for them out of buckskin and beads and 
feathers. Now she had a real live baby, a baby 
all her own ! Did ever a little girl have such a 


208 How A-chon-ho-ak Hound the Light. 

possession before! Now what grand times sbe 
would have playing at housekeeping 1 Oh, how 
she wished Wanda could share this delight with 
her! But, alas! poor Wanda! she had all 
sorrows now instead of delights. 

A-chon-ho-ah skirted a mile or more around 
the Apache camp. Even then she was uneasy, 
and kept looking back over her shoulder. Once, 
when she saw an old woman walking towards 
her across the plain, she made sure it was the 
old woman who had sold her the baby, and was 
so frightened that she urged her pony forward 
at a rapid pace, despite the injunction not to 
ride too fast. However, in a little while, and 
after repeatedly looking back, she became con- 
vinced that the old woman was only engaged 
in gathering fuel. 

It would be impossible to depict Atogeer’s 
astonishment when A-chon-ho-ah walked into 
the tepee with the baby at her back. 

“Where did you get it, and whose is it?” 
asked Atogeer, quickly. 

“It is mine, and I got it from an old woman 
who was burying it in the sand.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Atogeer. 

“ It was born so,” went on A-chon-ho-ah, 
holding her two fingers together. 

“And so that was the reason they were going 
to put the poor thing to death ? ” 


209 


The Time Drawing Near. 

“ Yes, the old woman was scooping the place 
in the sand. She was going to bury it alive ! ** 
burst forth A-chon-ho-ah. 

“ They often do,” returned Atogeer. 

“Oh, but it was awful! I. couldn’t bear to 
see the baby buried ahve,” she continued. “ I 
begged the old woman for it.” 

“ Why, what did you expect to do with it ? ” 
asked Atogeer, quickly. 

“ O mother,” she replied, her eyes filling, 
“I knew you would let me bring it here. I 
knew you would not want me to let it be 
kiUed.” 

“No,” said Atogeer, melting at once, “it 
ought not to have been killed. But what will 
your father say ? ” 

“ I do not think that he will care. I will not 
let it be any trouble. I will get it milk to drink 
with my own money, and I will let it sleep with 
me. It is my very own baby,” said A-chon- 
ho-ah, proudly, unloosing the shawl from her 
back, and laying the baby in her mother’s lap. 
“I bought it with my own money.” 

“Bought it?” echoed Atogeer, now more 
astonished than ever. 

“Yes, I gave the old woman a dollar for it. 
She did not seem to want to let me have it at 
first.” 

“Well, I do hope that you won’t repent of 
14 


210 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

your bargain,” said Atogeer, now more gravely 
than she had yet spoken. 

“ O mother,” said A-chon-ho-ah, quickly, 
“you don’t think that it will bring us any bad 
luck?” 

“No,” returned Atogeer, “the bad luck will 
be to the child itself, or to the other one. 
When one dies, then the other will have to die.” 

“Then why wouldn’t the other one have died 
if this one had been put to death now? ” asked 
A-chon-ho-ah, suddenly. “ I don’t see any 
difference.” 

The question puzzled Atogeer. She knew 
not how to answer it. She shared in many of 
the superstitions of her race, among them this 
one with reference to twins ; but, when con- 
fronted with reason, as in the present instance, 
she had not the clearness of mind to grasp it 
understandingly, nor to settle the point satis- 
factorily to herself. She only knew that it was 
a behef firmly held among her people, that, if 
twins were kept, one would die when the other 
did. Superstition swayed her mind, and not 
reason. 

“It is a fine baby,” she said to A-chon- 
ho-ah, after a few moments spent in examining 
it carefully. “ I will do all that I can to help 
you keep it. Poor httle creature! It would 
have been too bad for it to have perished.” 


211 


The Time Drawing Near. 

“So I thought,” said A-chon-ho-ah. “It 
made me feel awful to see the old woman get- 
ting ready to bury it.” 

Ton-ke-a-bau did not look with a favorable 
eye upon the baby at first. There were already 
mouths enough in the tepee, so he thought. 
But A-chon-ho-ah begged so hard to keep it, 
and promised so earnestly to see that it gave 
no trouble to anyone else, that he finally con- 
sented. . So the baby really became A-chon- 
ho-ah’s very own, and its sure-enough mother 
could not have cared for it more sohcitously. 

A-chon-ho-ah was so absorbed in her new 
treasure that for a time all else was forgotten, 
even the coming of Dau-ka-ye, save now and 
then as the thought of it came to her in a vague 
sort of way. But suddenly one day the remem- 
brance of it flashed before her so vividly that 
she felt almost hke crying to think that she had 
so long forgotten it. Indeed, tears did spring 
to her eyes. How could she be so absorbed 
with anything else as to forget about Dau- 
ka-ye ? And now he would soon be here. The 
time was drawing very close. It was only 
about a moon off now, for surely he was coming 
on the beautiful day they were going to keep 
in memory of him. 

A-chon-ho-ah’s heart smote her when she 
recalled how long she had forgotten Dau- 


212 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

ka-ye. Oh! what would he say to her when 
he came ? Why, she ought to have thought of 
him all the more when she saw the old woman 
preparing to so cruelly destroy the little baby ; 
for would not his coming put an end to all 
these terrible things? 

In the meantime the excitement among the 
Indians with reference to the new Messiah had 
been steadily abating, until there was now very 
little of it among those on this reservation, 
though further west it was breaking out with 
increased fervor. Several of the older and 
wiser Indians had seen and heard things con- 
cerning the new Messiah that had led them at 
first to suspect, and at last seriously to doubt, 
his genuineness. He was only an ordinary 
man like themselves, they felt finally con- 
vinced. The fire by which he had surrounded 
himself, and which had at first been such a 
mystery, was now fully explained, in that he 
had used a substance that had produced light 
through friction. Some of the Indians had 
come upon his supply of material, and had 
used it for themselves. Another thing, he had 
been shamefully intoxicated, had fallen down 
right in the midst of a dance, and had had to 
be carried away like a log. The more sensible 
of the Indians who witnessed this scene were 
thoroughly disgusted, though many of the 


213 


The Time Drawing Near. 

lighter-headed ones still held on to the pre- 
tended Messiah with strong behef, and began 
to make all kinds of excuses for him. What if 
others could use the article that made the fire? 
That was no reason for supposing that he had 
not produced it. Why had it not been found 
and used before if it wrere so common? As to 
his falling down in the midst of the dance, that 
was through the heat of the fire that overcame 
him, and not through whiskey, as was asserted. 
So this class stuck to him, and the revels went 
on. But when the news was brought to the 
Kiowa, Apache, and Comanche Keservation, 
the best of the Indians said right away that he 
was an impostor, and that they would have no- 
thing more to do with the dances in his honor. 
Luckily, they had influence with the others. 
This, joined to the persuasions of Andres and 
of the missionary, as well as the amicable, yet 
firm, course pursued by the Agent, had the de- 
sired effect. The revels, so far as the Apaches, 
Kiowas, and Comanches were concerned, were 
almost broken up. Only here and there, and 
in out-of-the-way places, and in concealment, 
did a small band of revellers hold on. They 
were principally the more hot-headed young 
men of their tribes. 

This finding out of the impostor was a great 
blow to the Indians, especially to those who 


214 llow A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

had looked forward so eagerly to his coming, 
and who had expected to reap some great 
benefit thereby. Especially was Ton-ke-a-ban 
disappointed. He was angry, too — angry to 
think that he had been so badly fooled, and 
that he had gone to all this trouble for nothing. 
It had been an expense, too, for he had bought 
feathers, paints, and beads in abundance, and 
had been quite hberal in helping to provide 
the feasts. Now it had all been for nothing. 
The Messiah was an impostor, and the Indians 
would not come into any of the glorious pos- 
sessions that he had promised. Ton-ke-a-bau 
was nearly beside himself with wrath and dis- 
appointment, and poured out all his feelings to 
Atogeer. 

“O father!” said A-chon-ho-ah, “Mr. An- 
dres said all along that he was not a real Mes- 
siah.” 

“Then why didn’t he tell us?” asked Ton- 
ke-a-bau, crossly. 

“O father! he did want to do it, but he felt 
that you would not believe him.” 

“Well, he might have tried it,” Ton-ke-a-bau 
continued, crustily. 

“He did Speak to one or two, for I heard him 
myself, and I know not to how many others. 
That was just one time when I was at the 
dance.” 


215 


The Time Drawing Near, 

“What was it that you told me once about 
one who was the real Messiah?” asked Ton- 
ke-a-bau, suddenly. 

“O father, that was Dau-ka-ye!” 

“Well, what about Dau-ka-ye?” 

“He lives up there beyond the sky. His 
home is called heaven, and, oh! it is so beauti- 
ful! Once he came away from it, came down 
here to earth. He came to save the people 
from their sins, and to make them good and 
happy. After he had stayed here on earth a 
while, he went back to heaven ; but he is com- 
ing again, and, oh ! he is going to bring such a 
beautiful hght with him, a light that he will 
give to all who believe in him.” 

“A light!” exclaimed Ton-ke-a-bau, moodily. 
“The Messiah among the Sioux came with a 
Hght, but it was found out that it was no more 
than any other man could produce. This Dau- 
ka-ye will doubtless prove an impostor, too.” 

“Oh, no, he will not!” cried A-chon~ho-ah, 
almost passionately. “ Dau-ka-ye is no impos- 
tor! When he comes he will really bring the 
Hght; he wiU do all that he has promised to 
do.” 

“ Then I wish that he would make haste and 
come,” said Ton-ke-a-bau, heartily. 

“O father, so do I! and I do beHeve that 
he will. It is just one moon now till the time 


216 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

when he was born on the earth, the day that is 
his birthday. Some think that he will come 
then. I asked Mr. Andres about it, and he 
said maybe he would. Over at the mission- 
house they are going to have so many things 
in his honor : a tree, beautiful presents, a star, 
lovely lights, and, oh! such a sweet talk by the 
missionary, all about Dau-ka-ye 1 ” 

Oh 1 how I wish that I could see and hear 
all that 1 ” cried poor little Narva, clasping her 
hands together. 

“Oh! I wish you could!” returned A-chon- 
ho-ah, earnestly, as she knelt beside her Httle 
sister’s pallet, and took the thin, wasted hands 
in hers. 

Narva had been failing steadily all the sum- 
mer and fall. She had one of those slow, but 
persistently wasting, fevers, the final course of 
which nearly always proves fatal. But Nar- 
va’s family fondly hoped that, with the coming 
of the winter, she would get well again. Yet 
the cool weather had come, and still poor 
httle Narva lay upon her pallet, day after day 
growing weaker and weaker, instead of mend- 
ing. She was now but a shadow of her former 
self. 

Oh, how A-chon-ho-ah’s heart ached over 
the httle sister, and how she longed to see her 
well and strong again and playing as she once 


217 


The Time Drawing Near. 

used to play! She was constantly devising 
ways to amuse her as she lay there so pale and 
listless, and several hours of each day were 
spent by A-chon-ho-ah at Narva’s bedside. 

Narva’s heart had gone out at once to the 
httle baby, the poor little waif rescued from its 
burial in the sand. From the moment she 
heard its story she pitied, then loved it. She 
begged A-chon-ho-ah to let her have half of it 
for hers. A-chon-ho-ah consented. So hour 
after hour the baby would he in its cradle, close 
beside Narva’s pallet, right where she could 
easily reach it and touch it with her thin little 
hand. It was pathetic to see the care and love 
she bestowed upon it, for she was almost as 
weak and helpless in one respect as was the 
baby. Such a quaint, devoted httle mother as 
she made! 

Narva’s thoughts were divided between the 
baby and Dau-ka-ye, this wonderful Dau-ka-ye 
of whom she had so often heard her sister 
speak. Then, too, she remembered what the 
missionary’s daughter had told her, and the 
beautiful words she had read in the httle Testa- 
ment. 

Narva’s ears were always quick when Dau- 
ka-ye’s name was spoken, as they were on this 
occasion when A-chon-ho-ah was talking to 
Ton-ke-a-bau about him. 


218 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

“ If I was only well, I could go to the mission - 
house and see and hear these things,” said 
Narva, wistfully. “ O sister ! ” pathetically, “ do 
you not think I will be well enough in one 
moon more ? ” 

As she spoke she tried to raise herself from 
the pillow, but fell back again exhausted with 
the effort. 

‘‘ Oh, I hope so! I hope so 1 ” said A-chon~ 
ho-ah, stroking the wasted hands tenderly, 
while her eyes filled with tears to see them so 
thin. “ But even if you are not well enough,” 
continued A-chon-ho-ah, “ you will be when 
Dau-ka-ye comes. Oh, I’ll ask him to make 
you well. That shall be the first thing I will 
ask him. I will say to him: ‘O Dau-ka-ye! 
if you please, come and make my httle sister 
well. She has been sick so long, and is so thin 
and weak. She does so want to be up again, 
and to go out and see the grass and the sweet 
flowers grow, and to play with her fawn, and to 
ride her httle pony, and to be as she once was, 
happy and gay. Oh, please, Dau-ka-ye, come 
and make my httle sister well! ’ ” 

“Oh, do you think he will?” cried Narva, 
and now she actuaUy raised herself, so great 
was her excitement. 

“Yes, I know he wiU,” returned A-chon- 
ho-ah, confidently. “He is so loving and so 


219 


The Time Drawing Near, 

gentle, and so kind. Oh, he has such a great, 
warm heart. He cannot bear to see anyone 
suffer. When he was here on earth before, so 
the missionary said, he went about healing the 
wounds of those who were hurt, curing the 
sick, making the lame walk, and even giving 
sight to those whose eyes were gone.” 

“ Those were wonderful things,” said Ton-ke- 
a-bau, who had drawn near and was now listen- 
ing intently. ‘‘There is one thing about this 
Dau-ka-ye,” he continued, “ that I do not like. 
I heard you mention it before. When he comes 
he is to treat the white people the same as the 
Indians. If he does this the Indians will want 
nothing to do with him.” 

“O father! Dau-ka-ye is gentle and loving 
and kind, as I have just told Narva. All are 
his people. He loves all. He came to die for 
all, so the missionary said, and now he is com- 
ing back again to save all who believe and trust 
him.” 

“Well, there are some of these whites I’d 
like to see him treat as they deserve. Their 
hearts are like the cotton-wood when it is rotten 
inside.” 

“ But, father, there are good ones, too,” said 
A-chon-ho-ah, gently, “like Mr. Andres and 
the missionary, and Mr. Fred, and Mr. Day, 
and others.” 


220 How A-chon-ho~ah Found the Light. 

“ Yes, there are some good ones,” admitted 
Ton-ke-a-bau, “ and I guess they ought not to 
suffer. But there is one thing certain,” he said 
under his breath, “however this may be, the 
Indians want a Messiah all their own. And it’s 
got to be a real one, too. They are not going 
to be fooled again.” 

With these words he turned and left the tepee. 

“O sister!” said Narva, ‘ if Dau-ka-ye just 
will cure me ! ” 

“ I feel sure he will,” said A-chon-ho-ah, 
confidently. “In those times that he cured 
people they just had to ask him and to believe 
in him.” 

“Oh, I do beheve in him?” cried Narva, her 
hands clasped, her eyes shining Hke stars 
through her tears — tears of joy, tears of a 
child’s trust and fond behef. 

Of one before who had a trust similar to this 
it had been said, “Thy faith hath made thee 
whole ; go in peace.” 

“And do you think he will bring the light,^ 
sister?” asked Narva again, wistfully, “the light 
of which the missionary and his daughter told 
us, and of which you have read in the little 
book?” 

“Oh, yes,” said A-chon-ho-ah, “I feel sure 
he will. That is one of the principal things he 
is coming to bring.” 


221 


The Time Drawing Near. 

‘I have thought so much of this hght,” said 
Narva again. “ I have wondered what it is 
Hke. At night, when all the others were asleep 
and I was awake, I have lain here and looked 
at the stars shining through the top of the 
tepee, and twinkling like so many beautiful 
eyes, and I have wondered if the Hght was like 
them. Then, when the moon would come where 
I could see it, I would say, ‘Oh! it must be 
like the moon ! it is so many times more beau- 
fuL’ But then again I would see the sun when 
the day came, and oh! the light would be so 
glorious I could hardly look at it a moment. 
Then I have said, ‘The Hght Dau-ka-ye will 
bring will surely be like the sun.’ O sister, 
what do you think it will be like ? ” 

“It will be even more beautiful than the sun,” 
rephed A-chon-ho-ah ; “ oh 1 many, many times 
more beautiful! It will shine right down into 
our hearts and make us so happy.” 

“I could not be any happier than I am now,” 
said Narva, “ thinking of Dau-ka-ye’s coming.” 

“But, oh! when he really comes, Narva, you 
will be so many times happier! Why, it will 
make you happier just to see him ! Only think, 
Narva, of his walking in here, right into the 
tepee, and saying, ‘Narva, it makes my heart sad 
to see you lying here so pale, and thin, and 
weak. Get up, my child, and walk, and run, 


222 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

and play as you once used to do.’ Just think 
of that, Narva!” 

“Oh!” said Narva, her hands clasped, her 
bosom heaving, her eyes shining, “when he 
does that,” — a little sob caught her words here, 
and she had to begin again — “when he does 
that, I shall be too happy even to speak. O 
sister!” wistfully, “will it be long now?” 

“No, Narva; not long. In one moon I be- 
lieve Dau-ka-ye will come. Just think how 
short the time really is. Oh! it is almost 
here ! ” 


CHAPTEK XL 

THE BAY COMES. 

T he thought of Dau-ka- je and of the beau- 
tiful things he was to do when he came 
filled Narva’s heart with happiness for many 
days. It seemed, too, that she grew brighter 
and better. But this change was not perma- 
nent. Indeed, it lasted only a httle while. The 
seeming strength had doubtless come through 
her excitement. She began to fail again, and 
soon grew so weak she could hardly raise her 
head from the pillow. However, she did not 
complain ; she was stiU the same brave, cheerful 
little Narva. 

The winter had been unusually severe, and 
now, as Christmas approached, there was every 
indication of an early and heavy fall of snow. 
Indeed, it was predicted several days before it 
came. 

The day before Christmas, and as soon as she 
had eaten her breakfast, A-chon-ho-ah mounted 
her pony and rode towards Wanda’s camp. 
Her heart was beating tumultuously. To think 
that to-morrow was the day that Dau-ka-ye was 
223 


224 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

expected! Yes, to-morrow she and Wanda be- 
gan their watch of the mountain. 

She had not seen Wanda for several days — 
for nearly two weeks, in fact. She therefore 
did not know what had happened to her former 
playmate during all this time. How fared it 
with poor Wanda? That was the question 
constantly presenting itself as she rode towards 
the camp. Would the way be clear? and would 
her little friend be able to keep that watch with 
her on the morrow? 

The last time she had seen Wanda they had 
agreed that on this day, at a certain hour, and 
at a place not far from Wanda’s camp, they 
would meet. It was towards this spot that 
A-chon-ho-ah was now riding. 

She reached the place, but there was no sign 
of Wanda. She waited several minutes, then 
growing impatient, and cold too, mounted her 
pony again and rode toward an old woman she 
saw picketing some cows near to a clump of cot- 
ton-woods. From her A-chon-ho-ah learned 
that Wanda was at the camp ; so too was Har-we- 
poy-er. This was doubtless the reason Wanda 
had not yet appeared at the meeting-place. By 
paying the woman a little bribe, A-chon-ho-ah 
finally got her to consent to carry a message to 
Wanda in such a way that no one else would 
hear it. 


The Day Comes. 


225 


While waiting, A-chon-ho-ah rode her pony 
about, so that the exercise might keep her warm. 

In about half an hour Wanda came. She 
was pale and breathless, and told A-chon-ho-ah 
that she had had a time in getting away from 
Har-we-poy-er. 

“And now I must hurry,” she concluded, “or 
he may find out I have come away without ask- 
ing, and perhaps beat me when I return.” 

“Poor Wanda,” said A-chon-ho-ah, her heart 
full of sympathy. “ Does Har-we-poy-er treat 
you as cruelly as ever ? ” 

“Yes, he does; even more so sometimes.” 

“ Oh, that is dreadful ! ” 

“Yes, it is dreadful ; but what can I do? ” 

Instead of replying, A-chon-ho-ah met Wanda 
with another question. But, unhke Wanda’s, it 
was a happy, joyous question. Indeed, it was 
so happy, so joyous, it fairly broke from her 
hps. 

“O Wanda! do you know what day to- 
morrow is ? ” 

Wanda’s sad, heavy eyes brightened. 

“Yes,” she said, “I do. I was thinking of it 
just before your message came.” 

“And can you go with me to watch the 
mountain ? ” 

“ I do not know. Oh, I am afraid I cannot 1 
Har-we-poy-er is not likely to go away. I 
15 


226 IIoxo A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light 

know he will not if the weather gets much 
colder.” 

“ Oh, that is too bad ! Cannot you make 
some excuse to leave, Wanda?” 

“ I do not know. I will try. But,” she con- 
tinued after a moment’s pause, “if the weather 
is very cold, ought we to go ? Do you think we 
could stand it? I heard some of them say at 
the camp that it was going to snow.” 

“ Oh, as it will be Dau-ka-ye for whom we are 
watching, we’ll not mind it!” A-chon-ho-ah re- 
turned, her eyes flaming. “ But we can keep 
from being too cold. We can make us a fire 
under the cotton-woods, and I’ll take a piece of 
cloth of which our old tepee was made, and 
we’ll put it up on some forks. O Wanda! I 
feel sure we can keep real comfortable. And 
to think what we may see ere the day is 
over! ” 

“Oh, will it not be grand?” cried Wanda, 
catching some of A-chon-ho-ah’s excitement 
now. 

“Yes, that it will ! Don’t fail to come, Wanda. 
I’ll wait for you under the cotton- woods. You 
remember, I showed you the place ? I will have 
the fire and the cloth for our tent there, and all 
ready.” 

“O A-chon-ho-ah!” said Wanda, suddenly, 
“ was it not too bad that we could not go to 


The Day Comes, 227 

the mission-house and see what is jO be there 
to-morrow ? ” 

“No,” said A-chon-ho-ah, “ not so bad. Why, 
Wanda, it will be a heap better, oh! so much 
better, to stay here and watch the mountain. 
Just to think, we may be the very first ones to 
see Dau-ka-ye! Oh, will that not be grander, 
many times, than going to the mission-house ? ” 

“Yes, if only we see him.” 

“ I feel sure that we will.” 

A-chon-ho-ah could scarcely s.eep that night 
for thinking of the morrow. She was up ere 
dayhght came. When it did come, her heart 
felt a thrill of disappointment to see that clouds 
thick and threatening had gathered. Dau-ka-ye 
ought to have a brighter day than this one pro- 
mised to be. 

She went early to the clump of cotton-woods, 
the cotton-woods only a little distance from the 
foot of the mountain, and from which such a 
clear view was to be had of the point at which 
A-chon-ho-ah felt sure Dau-ka-ye would ap- 
pear. The flowers were gone now, but the 
ledge looked as imposing and throne-like as 
ever, despite that winter had robbed it of the 
beauty of its surroundings. But above it the 
clouds hovered, almost touching it, it seemed to 
A-chon-ho-ah; and though they were murky 
and threatening, there was nevertheless about 


228 IIow A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

them a mystery and a sublimity that filled 
A-chon-ho-ah’s heart with awe and reverence ; 
for was it not down through them that Dau- 
ka-ye was to come ? Oh, how bright and beau- 
tiful they would be then ! 

A-chon-ho-ah built the fire, set up the forks 
spread the canvas over them, and then sat down 
to wait for Wanda. 

The clouds had lifted somewhat, and now the 
imposing summit of the mountain was in full 
view. The sun, too, was making an effort to 
shine, and the light struggling here and there 
through the clouds gave them ghstening edges 
of gold that were indescribably beautiful. 

“Oh,” cried A-chon-ho-ah, her eyes radiant, 
her heart fluttering hke a bird, “I believe he is 
coming! I believe he is coming!” 

But, though she watched for many moments 
with straining eyes, there was yet no sign of 
Dau-ka-ye. 

Wanda came at last. She had had a hard 
time getting away from the camp. Har-we- 
poy-er was there, and was hkely to be all day. 
Therefore she dared not remain away for any 
great while. 

“Oh, we’ll not have to stay long! ” A-chon- 
ho-ah cried, excitedly. “Dau-ka-ye will soon 
be here. I feel sure that he will ! Do you not 
see how the light is shining through the clouds? 


229 


The Day Comes, 

0 Wanda! suppose that v\^e should see him this 
very moment coming right down there through 
that spot that is so beautiful, what would we 
do ? Oh 1 I feel sure I could scarcely draw my 
breath.” 

Wanda was almost as much excited as was 
A-chon-ho-ah. Her heart beat rapidly; her 
breath came and went in little short, quick 
gasps ; her hands were clasped ; her eyes were 
fixed upon the mountain and the clouds in a 
gaze that, it seemed, must pierce not only 
through, but beyond them. 

A-chon-ho-ah stood at her side. Her own 
heart was beating as though it would quite 
beat itself out of her bosom. One arm was 
across Wanda’s shoulders, the other extended, 
the hand shading her eyes as though the better 
to aid their vision in the effort they were mak- 
ing to penetrate beyond the clouds ; for was not 
Dau-ka-ye there, and perhaps all the beautiful 
angels with him? Oh! if she could but get a 
sight of them ! 

The fire had gone out ; the wind had taken 
the canvas, so hastily and rudely improvised 
into a tent, and had carried it several feet be- 
yond the clump of trees ; the skies all behind 
them had grown gloomy and forbidding ; the 
gusts whistled through the trees, and tossed 
their clothing, but still the two little girls stood 


230 How A-chon~ho-ah ]^ou7id the Light, 

unmindful, unheeding, their eyes fixed upon 
the clouds above the mountain, through which 
they felt sure that Dau-ka-ye was to come. 

But the cold soon made itself felt, and the 
wind sent keen stings to their bones. Finally, 
as the light went out from the clouds, and the 
shadows settled all around them, they turned 
away with a shiver from the inspection of the 
mountain, and for the first time became aware 
that fire and tent had both left them. 

‘‘Oh! our fire is out!” cried Wanda, “and 
where is the cloth of which you made our httle 
tent?” Then, as she spied it fluttering in the 
wind at some little distance away, she ran to 
bring it. They set up the cloth again on the 
forks, and pinned it to the ground. Then they 
raked together the embers of the dying fire and 
threw fresh fuel upon them. This done, they 
turned once more for a watch of the mountain. 

Alas! there was no longer any light visible 
through the clouds! All had grown gloomy, 
chill, and gray. The very mountain itself 
seemed to catch the shadows, and to be 
wrapped all about with them. The summit 
was now quite hidden, and almost the precious 
ledge of rock. 

“Oh!” said Wanda, despondently, “I do not 
believe that Dau-ka-ye is coming ! ” 

A-chon-ho-ah’s own heart felt the echo of 


231 


The Day Comes. 

these words. She, too, was beginning to lose 
hope. Nevertheless, she replied bravely: “Do 
not let us give up yet. The day is but half 
over. Oh ! somehow I can’t let the thought go 
that Dau-ka-ye^will yet come.” 

“ But I must go back to the camp now,” said 
Wanda. “I have already stayed longer than I 
ought. Oh ! I am so afraid that Har-we-poy-er 
will beat me ! ” 

“I hope not,” said A-chon-ho-ah, with deep 
concern. “ Beg him not to. Tell him I kept you. 
O Wanda! ” ^anxiously, “are you not coming 
back again, coming back here to watch with me ? ” 

“I am afraid that I cannot,” said Wanda, 
sadly. “Har-we-poy-er will not let me leave 
again to-day.” 

“O Wanda, it is too bad that I must watch 
alone!” 

“It is; but it cannot be helped.” 

“O Wanda, suppose that Dau-ka-ye should 
come! You will not be here to see!” 

“But you will come at once to tell me,” said 
Wanda, quickly. “O A-chon-ho-ah! promise 
me that you will, the very moment that you see 
him, get your pony and make it run every step 
of the way.” 

A-chon-ho-ah hesitated a moment. This 
was a great promise to make. It was three 
miles and more to Wanda’s camp, and, oh! she 


232 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

did so want to see Dau-ka-ye herself the very 
moment he came. She wanted to speak to him 
about Narva. But, then, poor Wanda’s need 
of him would be pressing, too. Yes, she would 
ride to Wanda’s camp at once with the news, 
so she assured her former playmate, and sent 
her away feehng very hopeful and happy. 

A-chon-ho-ah kept the watch for an hour or 
more after Wanda left her. Then she noticed 
an old squaw moving about on the prairie in 
quite a rapid and excited manner. She seemed 
to be hunting for some one, or for the track of 
some one. At length, as she caught sight of 
the smoke of the fire and of the extended piece 
of cloth, she came on a run towards A-chon- 
ho-ah. 

“Your mother has sent for you,” she said, as 
soon as she could get her breath. “She 
thought you might be out here by the mountain 
somewhere. Haste to the tepee as fast as you 
can. Your little sister is dying!” 

A-chon-ho-ah needed no second bidding. 
Fire, tent, and even Dau-ka-ye, were all forgot- 
ten in this overwhelming sorrow that threatened 
her. She ran every step of the mile between 
her watching-place and the camp. 

She heard her mother’s agonizing wails some 
little time ere she reached the tepee. She felt 
like adding her own to them, but realized that 


The Day Comes, 233 

she must save all her breath for the effort of 
running. 

It was only too true, the news the old squaw 
had brought. There lay poor little Narva upon 
the pallet, her eyes closed, her hands clenched, 
her breath coming and going in faint gasps. 

Ton-ke-a-bau was not there. Indeed, almost 
every man and boy in the camp had left a few 
hours before to go on an all-day hunt. 

“ Oh, if only Wich-e-tos-ka, the great medi- 
cine man, could be brought!” wailed poor Ato- 
geer. “But, alas! there is no one here to go 
for him.” 

“I will go,” said A-chon-ho-ah, with quick 
decision, and ere her mother could enter her 
protest, even had she been calm enough to 
think of so doing, she had left the tepee and 
was hastening for a pony. She quickly saddled 
one, mounted, and was away like the wind. 

As yet she had not had the time to mourn for 
her sister. The interval between her entrance 
of the tepee and her departure had been so 
brief that she had barely fallen upon her knees 
beside her sister ere she had risen again to 
hasten on this ride for the doctor. Now as she 
thought of poor Narva lying there in that terri- 
ble state, in what might prove the death agony 
unless she could get the doctor in time, her 
tears began to fall like rain and her sobs almost 
choked her. 


234 How A-chon-ho-ah tound the Light. 

Wich-e-tos-ka, as has been said, lived directly 
across Mt. Scott. There was a longer way 
around, but as this was twice as far as across 
the mountain, no one ever thought of taking it, 
especially in a case of emergency. 

A-chon-ho-ah had not left her camp a mile 
behind when she became aware that snow was 
beginning to fall. She gave a httle shiver and 
drew her blanket closer. The flakes came 
faster and faster. Soon all the prairie around 
was in obscurity. But, nothing daunted, A- 
chon-ho-ah urged her pony and kept steadily 
on ; Narva’s life was too precious for her to turn 
back, even for a heavy snow-fall. Wich-e-tos- 
ka must be summoned, if in her power. 

She had now reached the foot of the moun- 
tain and began the ascent. 

A-chon-ho-ah knew well the trail that led to 
Wich-e-tos-ka’s. She had twice been over it — 
once with her father and once alone. If the 
snow did not fall too fast and cover up the way, 
she would have no trouble in flnding it. 

But the snow was now coming down in large 
and rapid flakes. There was already a cover- 
ing half an inch thick upon the ground. The 
brown, bare grasses and the shrubs were cov- 
ered, too, with a coating. A-chon-ho-ah had 
not yet entered the denser shrubbery. This 
was further up on the mountain. 


The Day Coynes. 


235 


Higher and higher went A-chon-ho-ah. She 
was now at least half-way up, and so far she 
had been able to detect the path. But now the 
skies grew darker, the snow came faster and 
heavier. Soon her pony began to stumble. 
Once he almost threw A-chon-ho-ah from his 
back. There were many roots and ruts in the 
path she knew. There were sharp turns, too, 
along the edges of ravines, that in the spring 
and fall served as the channels for the several 
water-courses that made their way down from 
the mountain. If her pony stumbled near one 
of these, it would be almost certain death to her. 

But A-chon-ho-ah was a brave little girl. 
She did not give this matter a second thought, 
but urged her pony on. It was not the pony 
she wanted te ride ; not the one she had been 
accustomed to using. It was in some respects 
a strange pony, one that Ton-ke-a-bau had not 
long owned. When A-chon-ho-ah had gone to 
saddle a pony to ride to Wich-e-tos-ka’s, her 
own was not to be found. Her father or one 
of her brothers had doubtless ridden it. But 
this pony was gentle, she knew, and obedient, 
though he was not so sure-footed as her own. 
The great difficulty was that he and A-chon- 
ho-ah were not well acquainted with each 
other. This made things a little harder for 
both than they would otherwise have been. 


236 How A-chon-Jio-ah Found the Light. 

The path grew steeper and more rugged. 
They were now nearly to the top. The snow 
was still coming down heavily, though the 
branches of the trees warded it off somewhat. 
It was growing colder all the time. The sky, 
too, had become darker. It was almost like 
twilight, so thick was the fall of snow. 

It was now well past the middle of the after- 
noon, and A-chon-ho-ah began to feel uneasy. 
They were not making the progress she had 
hoped. She urged her pony to a faster gait, 
and then something happened. The pony 
stumbled. A-chon-ho-ah was not on the look- 
out for it, and was sent flying over his shoulders, 
her head striking in among the roots of a tree. 
Although the pony was not going fast, the force 
with which A-chon-ho-ah’s head struck the 
roots not only stunned her, but caused her to 
lose consciousness. 

How long she lay there in that state she did 
not know. It was doubtless a half-hour or more. 
When she came to herself she was alone. Her 
pony, growing tired of waiting for her to regain 
the saddle, had turned away and left her. As 
the path homeward was the one he knew best, 
he had undoubtedly taken that. In vain A-chon- 
ho-ah ran back for some httle distance along 
the way they had come, calling loudly for the 
pony. He was far beyond the sound of her voice. 


237 


The Day Comes. 

A-chon-ho-ah’s first impulse was to make her 
way back to her camp. She might, perhaps, 
overtake the pony on the road. But then came 
the thought of Narva, which spurred her for- 
ward. She must bring the doctor, for it was 
the only chance for the life of her little sister. 
Wich-e-tos-ka was a great medicine man. If 
only she could get him there ! She resolved to 
make the rest of the journey on foot. Another 
thing that helped her to this resolve was that she 
was now almost as near his camp as her own. 
Once she reached the summit, it would not be 
so hard going down as it was climbing up. 
Wich-e-tos-ka would surely lend her a pony to 
ride back.. She was so glad she had on good, 
stout moccasins and leggings, and that her 
blanket was new and warm. Drawing it closer- 
around her, she set off with a brave heart 
through the snow-drifts. 

After much toiling and sharp climbing she 
finally reached the summit. She was not quite 
sure now that she had the right path, for the 
snow had come so fast that the trail was quite 
obscured. Still, she thought she could tell by 
the trees. She had an idea, too, as to the direc- 
tion. The sky was now quite dark and gloomy; 
the snow came faster and faster; the pitiless 
cold cut her with sharp stings. 

On the summit she paused a moment, irreso- 


238 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

lute. Which way should she go? There was 
now no sign of the trail to guide her. Where 
she had hoped to have help from the trees, she 
was only confused. The snow was so blinding 
she could see but a few paces ahead. 

But no thought of turning back entered 
A-chon-ho-ah’s loyal heart. She would reach 
Wich-e-tos-ka’s camp and summon him to her 
little sister at any cost to herself, even to the 
giving of life itself, if need be. So, after that 
one moment of irresolution as she paused upon 
the summit, she turned and started down the 
mountain side. She had not gone far when 
she experienced a feeling of dismay. She was 
sure now she was not in the trail. She could 
tell this by the numberless hollows into which 
■ she plunged and the uneven places over which 
she had to chmb. Again and again, too, she 
became entangled in the underbrush. Still the 
brave purpose to keep on held heart and feet 
steadfast. 

On toiled A-chon-ho-ah, further and further 
down the mountain side. A thick gloom was 
now settling about her. She could see but a 
few paces in front of her. The night was 
assuredly drawing on, and still no sign of 
Wich-e-tos-ka’s camp. Added to this terror 
that now threatened her — the terror of the 
night catching her on the mountain — she had 


The Day Comes. 


239 


now literally to do battle with the snow as she 
toiled onward. For the fall had grown almost 
to a storm, and she had to fight her way through 
it at every step. 

Was she going in the right direction? The 
thought that she might not be almost made her 
heart stand still. Surely she would come in 
sight of the camp directly. Surely she would 
hear some sound to guide her. Wich-e-tos-ka 
hved almost at the foot of the mountain, and 
she now felt sure that she was near the bottom. 
But as she toiled on and on, and as still there 
was no sign of hfe to cheer her, no hope of 
human aid, her heart sank and sobs began to 
escape her. Even her superb courage could 
not hold out against such odds as these. But, 
though she was shaken by the danger that 
threatened her, still her loyal heart never once 
regretted that she had undertaken the journey. 
No, no, no ! a hundred times no ! Oh, if she 
could yet reach Wich-e-tos-ka’s camp and send 
him to Narva! That one burning desire was 
uppermost in her heart. 

The terror that had threatened her now be- 
came a reality. Night had indeed settled down, 
and A-chon-ho-ah could no longer keep away 
the dreadful truth. She was lost on the moun- 
tain ! Oh ! how dark it was ! If only she could 
see the hght of a star twinkling through the 
trees ! 


240 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

The thought of the star brought again, and 
suddenly, the thought of Dau-ka-ye. Oh ! how 
had she forgotten him? It was all because she 
was so distressed about Narva. But now, when 
the darkness had come, and she was alone on 
the mountain, and longed for the light even of 
a star, then she thought of Dau-ka-ye. Oh! if 
she could but meet him now 1 Where was he ? 
Why did he linger? Perhaps he would come 
even yet. Perhaps it had been his intention 
all along to come at night, for then the beauti- 
ful light he was going to bring would seem all 
the brighter and more beautiful. 

On went A-chon-ho-ah down the mountain 
side, groping her way in the dark, plunging 
through the snow-drifts, getting up again to toil 
onward, and with her hmbs now growing so 
cold and stiff that she could scarcely drag 
them after her. She felt sure that she would 
have to stop after a while if she did not come 
to Wich-e-tos-ka’s ; that she would have to 
give up through the actual want of strength 
to proceed. Then what would become of 
her ? 

Oh! where was Dau-ka-ye? Why was he 
lingering? He was surely there upon the 
mountain somewhere. Maybe, if she called 
him, he would hear her and would come. She 
stood still a moment, and her heart stood still 


241 


The Day Comes. 

also at the very thought. Oh ! did she dare do 
it ? But, then, the hght ! the Hght ! Oh ! how 
dark it was! Where was Dau-ka-ye and the 
light? Would he never come? Oh! how dark 
it was! how very, very dark! Poor A-chon-ho- 
ah began to sob bitterly, not only because of 
the cold and weariness, but also because of 
the terror that possessed her. 

Her limbs were now so stiff and numb that 
she could scarcely drag them after her. Had 
she not been walking on a level, as she now 
was, she assuredly would have fallen, and have 
been unable to proceed. As it was, she was 
not walking, only staggering, and seeming on 
the point of falling at every step. 

She seemed now to be in an open space as 
well as a level one. As she no longer had the 
protection of the trees, the snow beat about 
her most furiously. 

Added to the weariness and numbness, a 
feeling of sleepiness began to steal over her. 
Slower and slower grew the steps; more and 
more her body swayed from side to side ! Oh ! 
what was that she heard? Was not some one 
calling her? What meant that ringing of bells 
in her ears? What was that beautiful music? 
Was Dau-ka-ye really coming? Qh ! if she 
could just keep awake long enough to see him! 
Yes, she would try, she would try, she would 
16 


242 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

try! Oh! he must not pass her by! He must 
see her! She would call him! 

“t)au-ka! Dau-ka!” But the poor, pale, 
blue lips refused to give forth another sound; 
the tongue had grown paralyzed ere the last 
syllable of the precious name could be uttered. 
Then A-chon-ho-ah staggered, fell, and lay a 
motionless heap upon the snow. 

And now the snow, as though ashamed to 
deal rudely, roughly, with one so loyal, so 
brave, so trusting, as this child had been, be- 
gan to fall more gently, though it still came 
down in steady flakes. Soon there was only a 
white mound to tell where A-chon-ho-ah had 
fallen, and, oh! how cold and pitiless it looked! 
Could it be that God, the angels, and that dear, 
precious Dau-ka-ye in whom this child-heart 
so faithfully beheved — could it be that all these 
had forgotten her? Could it be that she would 
be left to lie there in the cold and the darkness, 
to go out, perhaps, into the gloomy ‘‘valley of 
shadows,” and never, never to find the light? 
Ah! Dau-ka-ye, blessed, tender, pitying Dau- 
ka-ye, didst thou ever yet so desert the soul 
that trusted in thee? 


I 


CHAPTEE XII. 

AT LAST THE LIGHT. 

HE Christmas exercises at the mission- 



station had been beautiful and instructive. 


But there was one thing that took away much 
of the pleasure of the occasion from nearly all 
present : the missionary could not be with 
them, or, at least, he had to leave before the 
exercises were but little more than begun. 

Stumbling Bear had sent for him. His son 
was dying, and the old chief’s pleading to have 
the missionary come was pitiful indeed. If 
only the missionary could get there in time to 
talk to the boy ere he went out on that last 
long journey! How happy this would make 
Stumbling Bear’s heart I 

The missionary could not refuse, though at 
first it seemed almost out of the question for 
him to go. How could he leave these services, 
when he had made such earnest and careful 
preparation, and so much depended upon 
them ? How could they be carried out without 
him ? Would not the principal object he had 
in view fail of its point if he were not there to 


243 


244 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

give the services the impressiveness he desired? 
How he longed to reach these Indians, to bring 
home to them as never before the story of the 
birth of Jesus the Saviour, and of God’s gift 
of his Son! He could make it so forceful, so 
impressive, on this occasion. 

But then, there was Stumbling Bear and his 
pitiful, pleading message. The missionary 
loved and honored the old chief. He had been 
one of the first to come' forward and welcome 
him on his arrival at the station. Owing to the 
chief’s position and influence, this show of 
friendship had greatly aided the missionary in 
gaining a foothold among the Indians, especially 
among the Kiowas. Now Stumbling Bear was 
in trouble, yea, in the deepest kind of trouble, 
and 4iad sent for him. He could not refuse. 
Besides, there was the thought of the dying 
young man to reach and stir his heart. His 
going might mean the turning of an immortal 
soul from darkness unto light. So he stopped 
the exercises long enough to tell the Indians of 
the call he had, to dissuade them from leaving 
when some of them showed the disposition to 
do so, and to assure them that everything would 
be carried out as he had planned. Then, leav- 
ing matters in the hands of his wife and Andres, 
he went to prepare for his journey. 

It was now about ten o’clock in the morning. 


At Last the Light. 


245 


The skies were dark and heavy with clouds, and 
the wind had begun to blow keenly. 

“It looks hke snow,” said the missionary 
as he was hitching up the ponies, “ and I guess 
I had better prepare for it.” So he drew on 
his fur overcoat and great fur cap, fastening 
the latter snugly under his chin. Then he 
put his thick, warm leggings on over his 
boots. In addition, he placed his rubber coat 
and boots, and two heavy blankets in his 
cart. When all was in readiness, he gave the 
word to his ponies and started off. 

It was a long journey to Stumbling Bear’s — 
thirty miles or more — and it would take him, he 
knew, until late that afternoon, even with good 
travelling, to make it. 

Stumbling Bear hved near the foot of Mt. 
Scott, though directly across it from the mission- 
station. In order to reach it Mr. Melville did 
not have to go over any portion of the moun- 
tain, but only partly around it. Thus he could 
drive all the way with his ponies and cart, as 
there was a very good road. 

He had gone but httle more than half his 
journey when it began to snow. It was just at 
this moment that A-chon-ho-ah, riding from 
her camp to summon Wich-e-tos-ka, felt also 
the flakes drifting across her face. 

But the missionary expected the snow, and 


246 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

had prepared for it, so he only urged his ponies 
to a little faster gait, and went back again to 
his musings. 

When A-chon-ho-ah was climbing the moun- 
tain, buffeted by the heavy flakes that came 
down with the swiftness of a storm, he was 
driving around the mountain, the nimble feet of 
his hardy ponies making good time over the 
almost level road. When her pony stumbled 
and fell, and left her an unconscious heap in 
the snow, the missionary lacked only a few 
miles of being to the end of his journey. 

Stumbling Bear came a part of the distance 
on his pony to meet him. He had been so 
sure he would answer the call. He had joyous 
news for the missionary. His son had rallied 
wonderfully. They had felt sure that he was 
going to die. Indeed, it seemed they could 
almost hear the death-rattle in his throat. The 
old chief had completely given way to grief and 
despair. It appeared next to an impossibihty 
to get the missionary there in time. At that 
thought Stumbling Bear’s heart almost broke. 
How could he let this son, this precious boy, go 
out into the darkness unless the missionary was 
there to guide him, to point the way, to fill his 
heart with trust? 

And now to think he was not only alive, but 
he was conscious ! He knew what was said to 


247 


At Last the Light. 

Mm. He had even spoken some words to Ms 
father and mother. Oh, it was wonderful ! 

Mr. Melville found the young man, as his 
father had said, not only conscious, but able to 
talk. He was, indeed, rejoiced at this. 

Stumbhng Bear’s son had been bitten by a 
spider, a most venomous one. The poison had 
taken full possession of his system, and his 
death had been expected for some time. All 
the doctors had failed to do him any good; 
even the Government physician had pro- 
nounced his case incurable. 

Mr. Melville lingered for several hours talk- 
ing and praying with the young man. His 
heart was, indeed, made glad at the readiness 
with which he listened and the earnestness he 
displayed in reaching out for the light. 

He seemed so much better that Mr. Melville 
hoped he would linger for several days yet. 
Finally, as the storm ceased and the moon 
came out clear and bright, Mr. Melville re- 
solved to return to the mission-station that 
night, although it was still very cold. There 
were so many things for which he was needed. 
Indeed, it had been at a great sacrifice to his 
work that he had made this journey to Stum- 
bhng Bear’s. Now that he had accompHshed 
the purpose for which he had been summoned, 
he felt that he ought, by all means, to be at Ms 
home early on the morrow. 


248 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

Stumbling Bear tried to dissuade him from 
taking the ride back at night, but when matters 
were explained to him by the missionary he 
saw fully how urgent they were. Then he no 
longer dissuaded, but set about getting the 
missionary ready for the journey. He insisted 
that he take fresh ponies. He had two as fine 
ones as could be found anywhere in the Terri- 
tory. The missionary’s could be returned to 
him later. Then he had the wheels removed 
from Mr. Melville’s cart, and runners put on 
instead. He also placed a heavy buffalo robe 
inside in addition to the blankets. Finally, he 
persuaded the missionary to take along with 
him an Indian lad of fifteen or sixteen, whom 
Stumbhng Bear said knew every foot of the 
ground back to the Agency. Despite the 
heavy fall of snow, Psait-ca would keep the 
road. 

It lacked only an hour or so of midnight 
when the missionary started. The fall of snow 
had entirely ceased, and the clear light of the 
moon shone over a broad expanse of prairie. 
Many objects were as distinctly seen as though 
it had been day. But, as they neared the 
mountain, things grew more shadowy, for a 
fringe of tree tops now partly obscured the 
moon. 

For about four miles the road lay directly 


At Last the Light. 


249 


around the base of the mountain. There was 
now no sign of the track, for everything far 
and near was covered with a thick mantle of 
snow. But Psait-ca seemed to know the way 
well, and showed no hesitation in driving 
steadily onward. 

Suddenly, just as they had entered one of the 
most obscure portions of the road, one where the 
trees arched overhead and threw deep shadows, 
the ponies shied and made so short a stop that 
it almost threw the occupants from the cart. 

“ Why, what can be the matter with them ? ” 
asked Mr. Melville, looking at Psait-ca. 

“ There is something in the road, I think,” 
he replied. 

Both looked ahead intently. All they could 
see was a small, mound-hke drift of snow in the 
centre of the road. 

“Why, that isn’t anything to scare them,” 
said Mr. Melville. “It is, doubtless, only a 
small log or pile of branches drifted over. 
They must have caught sight of something 
among the trees.” 

But, though they now strained their eyes in 
every direction, they could see nothing calcu- 
lated to frighten the ponies. 

Again they were urged forward, and again 
they stopped, this time almost beside the 
mound. And now they showed unmistakable 


250 Uow A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

signs of excitement, for they were trembling 
perceptibly. 

“ There is something about the mound they 
do not like,” said Psait-ca. “I will get down 
and see what it is.” 

But ere he could put his words into action a 
small yellow dog, his pet, that had persisted in 
leaping into the cart and crouching at his feet 
just as they were driving away from the camp, 
now sprang downward, ran along the ground, 
and began pawing vigorously at the mound, at 
the same time barking loudly. 

“There is surely something there,” said Mr. 
Melville at this juncture, and if it had not been 
that he had been left to hold the ponies, he, too, 
would have gotten down. 

Psait-ca was soon beside his little dog and 
bending over the mound. So industrious had 
that small animal been in his pawing operations 
that he now had a considerable hole in the 
mound. The light under the trees was so ob- 
scure that it prevented Psait-ca from seeing at 
once what he a few moments later discovered. 
There was clothing showing through the hole 
the little dog had excavated. When at last 
Psait-ca made this discovery, it did not take 
him long to completely bring to view the object 
the mound of snow had been covering. 

“It’s a young squaw,” he called out excitedly 


At Last the Light. 


251 


to the missionary, ‘‘and I do believe she is 
dead. Of course she’s dead,” he added, more 
to himself than to Mr. Melville, “for how could 
she he here under all this snow without being 
so?” 

“Brush every bit of the snow from her cloth- 
ing and bring her here,” the missionary said, 
quickly. “Now lift her in the cart and lay her 
down on the blankets right under the buffalo 
robe. Why, she’s nothing but a child!” he 
exclaimed, pityingly, as he caught a ghmpse of 
the face and figure as Psait-ca lifted her into 
the cart, placing her as the missionary had 
directed. 

“Now, while you drive,” Mr. Melville con- 
tinued, “I will chafe her hands and face, and 
do all I can to bring her back to consciousness. 
Poor young thing! I’m afraid she is dead. 
But drive as fast as you can without taxing the 
ponies too much. We ought to get her to a 
doctor as soon as we can, for there may be 
fife.” 

So, while Psait-ca urged the ponies, the good 
missionary began to rub poor A-chon-ho-ah’s 
benumbed flesh as vigorously as he could, for 
it was she they had found under the snow- 
drift. 

The little dog, too, seemed desirous of doing 
all he could to arouse her. He crouched beside 


•i 


252 How A-chon-ko-ah Found the Light. 

her on the blankets, licking her face, and now 
and then her hands, with his soft, warm tongue. 

“ Oh, poor child ! ” said the missionary, with a 
rush of tears to his eyes, “I’m afraid she is 
dead. What a terrible time she must have had 
wandering in the snow! for everything points 
to her having been lost in the storm.” 

“I am puzzled to know,” he continued, “from 
whence she could have come. I do not recol- 
lect to have seen any camps hereabouts on my 
journey over. Can you recall any, Psait-ca?” 

“No,” replied the lad, “I do not remember 
any on this side, unless it is of Indians travel- 
ling about.” 

They had now come from out the shadows 
of the trees and were driving over the open 
prairies. Again the moon shone with a clear 
light all around them. 

“I think I feel a little stir of life,” Mr. Mel- 
ville said, after carefully holding A-chon-ho-ah’s 
hand in his own for some moments. Then he 
bent for a closer view of her face. As he did 
so, an exclamation escaped him. 

“Why,” said he, “I do believe this is a little 
girl I know very well, A-chon-ho-ah by name! 
If it is, then she is many miles from home. 
She is Ton-ke-a-bau’s little daughter, and lives 
on the other side of Mt. Scott.” 

“Why, that is twelve miles or more from 


253 


At Last the Light, 

here!” said Psait-ca, quickly. “I know very 
well where Ton-ke-a-bau lives.” 

“I feel sure that this is A-chon-ho-ah,” Mr. 
Melville said again, after another close scrutiny. 
“Poor httle thing! How came she to be lost 
in the snow ? ” 

He again fell to chafing her hands, face, and 
limbs, and soon had his reward in feeling a 
gradual warmth stealing over her body. Mr. 
Melville held the poor frozen form as close to 
his knees as he could. He also bade Psait-ca 
draw as near as he could on the other side. In 
this way they might communicate some heat 
from their own bodies. The faithful little dog 
had already taken up his place across her feet, 
and Mr. Melville felt glad of this. 

“We will not stop now, even if we do come 
to an Indian camp,” Mr. Melville said to Psait- 
ca. “All will be asleep if we do, and it will 
take a long while to awaken them and to make 
them understand what we want. Then, there 
will be no doctor there, at least no such doctor 
as this poor frozen child needs. So the best 
thing is to push on to the station. There she 
can have the best of attention.” 

Psait-ca needed no second bidding. He 
knew that the ponies he drove were hardy as 
well as swift. So he urged them onward, until 
their pretty, graceful feet seemed fairly flying 
over the snow. 


254 Flow A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

The dawn had begun to break in the east, 
and all the prairies around had caught the 
promise of the coming day, as they drove up 
to the gate of the mission-house. No one was 
astir, as it was too early yet. Telling Psait-ca 
where to put up the ponies, Mr. Melville raised 
A-chon-ho-ah in his arms and bore her to the 
house. She was still unconscious, and her 
limbs were stiff, but it seemed to Mr. Melville 
that he could hear her faintly breathing. He 
reahzed that haste was needed, so he rapped 
loudly at the door. John came to open it — 
John, sleepy-eyed, but alert in a moment, as 
soon as he noticed the burden in his father’s 
arms. 

“0 father, what have you there?” he asked, 
quickly. 

“A little Indian girl who has been frozen in 
the snow. Hasten, John, get your clothes on, 
and go with all speed possible for Dr. Holley. 
Tell him the urgency of the case, and beg him 
to come at once.” 

Then he bore the unconscious A-chon-ho-ah 
into his little study, and placed her upon the 
lounge. Quilts and blankets were piled upon 
her. In order to get these he had aroused his 
wdfe and Emma, and they were now doing 
everything in their power to help him revive 
A-chon-ho-ah. Her clothing was removed, and 


255 


At Last the Light 

she was placed between blankets. Then, while 
Mr. Melville made the fire in a little stove near 
at hand, both Mrs. Melville and Emma rubbed 
A-chon-ho-ah all they could without exposing 
her body to the chill of the air. 

Emma had recognized A-chon-ho-ah at once, 
and her heart had been deeply grieved to note 
her condition and to hear from her father how 
she had been lost in the snow. 

Dr. Holley shook his head gravely when he 
came. The child was in a serious condition, he 
said. She had evidently not been taken from 
the snow a moment too soon. “ But if there is 
a spark of fife left,” he declared, “we’ll find it,” 
and with these words he set to work with all 
vigor to restore A-chon-ho-ah. 

Dr. Holley had been Government physician 
for several years. So great was his popularity, 
and so conscientiously did he do his work, that 
he had served under two administrations, and 
was a favorite with whites and Indians alike. 
His popularity, too, was based upon no unde- 
serving foundation, for he was a thoroughly 
skilled physician. 

He worked long and patiently over A-chon- 
ho-ah, Mr. and Mrs. Melville and Emma as- 
sisting him. At last he was rewarded by 
feeling her heart begin to beat regularly, 
though faintly. But he shook his head doubt- 


256 How A-chon-ho-ah l/ound the Light. 

fully as lie made a closer examination of liei 
body. 

“ She will probably live, but I am afraid her 
feet and hands are frozen beyond remedy. 
Still, I will give them a treatment that has 
proved successful in more than one extreme 
case.” 

It was two days ere A-chon-ho-ah regained 
consciousness, though it seemed she could not 
speak. But Dr. Holley told them that this 
was not because she did not have the power of 
speech, but because her mind was a kind of 
blank. She was completely dazed after her 
terrible experience and the time she had lain 
unconscious. She would come to herself after 
a while, for this matter, and it might be, too, 
that her feet and hands could be saved. The 
good doctor had assuredly worked faithfully 
over them. 

In the meantime, a messenger had been sent 
to A-chon-ho-ah’s camp to inform her parents 
of her rescue from the snow. Great had been 
their alarm when she had not returned at the 
expected time. Again and again Atogeer re- 
proached herself for having let her go. But 
her grief over Narva had been so great that 
she had really taken no notice of the threaten- 
ing weather. 

Narva was still ahve, but so ill that her mother 


257 


At Last the Light. 

could not leave her, though poor Atogeer’s 
heart was torn with distraction with reference 
to A-chon-ho-ah. But the messenger had told 
her how well she was being cared for, and this 
relieved her anxiety somewhat. 

But Ton-ke-a-bau came at once to see A- 
chon-ho-ah, and proved that he had a true 
heart, after all, under his rough exterior, by 
the love and solicitude he bestowed upon his 
little girl. 

At last it was decided that A-chon-ho-ah 
would not lose the use of her feet and hands. 
Dr. Holley’s untiring patience and skill had 
been rewarded. They might for a time be 
numb and unwieldy, but she would, in the end, 
recover the use of them. 

A-chon-ho-ah relapsed into unconsciousness 
again and had many days of burning fever. 
Then she tossed restlessly from side to side, 
moaning piteously of the darkening way and 
of the falling snow. One cry there was, too, 
above all the others — the cry for Dau-ka-ye and 
the hght. 

At last there came a day when A-chon-ho-ah 
returned to consciousness and to speech, 
though at first the latter was but a feeble effort. 

It was on a beautiful, clear morning, and the 
sunlight was fiooding the room. It lay in 
golden patches upon the bed and upon the floor. 

17 


• 258 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

It also cast a radiance here and there upon the 
walls. 

A-chon-ho-ah opened her eyes, saw the sun- 
light, and a faint cry escaped her. She stretched 
out her hands as though she would reach it and 
draw it to her. 

“ Oh, the hght!” she said, with a note of joy, 
though so faintly that Emma, who was sitting 
near the bed, could scarcely hear it. Then her 
eyes wandered searchingly, earnestly, around 
the room, and again her lips moved. This time 
it was but a single word that escaped them ; but, 
oh ! what fervor A-chon-ho-ah threw into that 
word, though so weak she could scarcely utter 
it. The word was - 2/6 

Emma caught the word and knew its mean- 
ing. She had heard A-chon-ho-ah use it before. 
How vividly she recalled now the times it had 
been spoken between them on the prairie and 
in the tents ! 

“Yes, Dau-ka-ye,” she said, bending over 
A-chon-ho-ah, and speaking gently and softly, 
“the dear, good, tender, loving Jesus, who has 
been so good to you, A-chon-ho-ah.” 

A-chon-ho-ah turned her eyes upon her in- 
quiringly. 

“ It was he that brought you safely through 
the tempest and from the snow. You remember 
the snow, A-chon-ho-ah, do you not ? ” 


259 


At Last the Light. 

But, instead of replying, A-chon-ho-ah’s eyes 
took on a deeper, a more radiant look, while 
her lips seemed fairly to glow as th,e words 
escaped them. 

‘‘Oh, has he come?” 

Emma saw her mistake. She must be literal 
with this groping mind. As yet it could not 
grasp figurative speech, at least not unless it 
was very clear. 

“I did not mean that he, Dau-ka-ye, was 
really here, A-chon-ho-ah. I meant that he 
had had care of you, even from away up yon- 
der in his home, and that he had so directed 
things that my father and Psait-ca, the Indian 
boy, were led to find you.” 

Then Emma told her as much of the story as 
she thought it best for her to hear. 

But A-chon-ho-ah paid little heed. Her 
whole thoughts were with Dau-ka-ye. One 
thing particularly was uppermost in her mind. 
He had not come! Why had he not? Alas! 
now what was to become of poor Wanda, of 
Narva’ and of all who depended so upon his 
coming ? 

This thought made A-chon-ho-ah very sad, 
but though so depressed in mind, she grew 
better rapidly. Soon she was sitting up. Ton- 
ke-a-bau came regularly to see her. Atogeer, 
too, had been there ; not once, but twice. 


260 How A-chm-ho-ah Found the Light, 

Narva was better. How glad this news made 
A-chon-ho-ah’s heart ! perhaps Dau-ka-ye, after 
all, though he had not come, had sent some- 
thing to cure her. How she would love him 
now! But she had loved him before, yet not 
so much as now. 

Those were hours never to be forgotten by 
A-chon-ho-ah, the hours spent at the mission- 
house when she was coming back to strength 
again. Such a sweet atmosphere as surrounded 
everything! All were so gentle and so kind. 
Oh ! why could not the Indians hve so ? Doubt- 
less they would when they learned of Dau-ka- 
ye and began to expect his coming. Oh, how 
she wished they could all learn of him, and thus 
strive to lead such lives as would please him! 

The missionary came in every day to see her 
when he was there^ and sometimes twice a day. 
Every time he came he read to her in the little 
Testament, and such beautiful talks he made! 

One day A-chon-ho-ah said to him, “ Dau- 
ka-ye has not come, and yet you say you have 
him here with you all the time ? How can that 
be?” 

The missionary placed his hand upon his 
heart. “I have him here, my child,” he re- 
plied, “right here in my heart. I cannot see 
him, but I GdJifeel him.” 

A sudden light shone in A-chon-ho-ah’s eyes. 


261 


At Last the Light. 

“Wliat is it io feel him?” she asked, and al- 
most it seemed that she was holding her breath, 
so great was the intensity with which she 
waited for the answer. 

“ It is to be happy, my child, oh, so happy ! 
to have hght and joy beyond words to de- 
scribe.” 

‘ “And does he make the hght and joy without 
our seeing him ? ” 

“Yes, my child, the very knowledge that he 
is our friend, our Saviour ; that he died to save 
us from our sins — this of itself is enough to 
make joy in our hearts.” 

“ But you said you had him, had Dau-ka-ye 
himself, in your heart,” she rephed, still incredu- 
lously. 

“So I have, my child. Let me read to you 
in the httle book you have learned to love so 
well.” Picking up the little Testament that lay 
near at hand, he read to her from John xiv. 23 : 
“ ‘Jesus answered and said unto him. If a man 
love me, he will keep my words: and my Fa- 
ther will love him, and we will come unto him, 
and make our abode with him.’ So, you see, my 
dear A-chon-ho-ah, we have only to love Dau- 
ka-ye, and to keep the commandments he has 
given us, to have him come and dwell with us 
here in our hearts.” 

“I do love him,” said A-chon-ho-ah, earn- 


262 IIow A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light 

estlj. Then a sudden joyous look came into 
her face; “and, oh!” she continued, “it makes 
me very, very happy to feel that I love him.” 

A glad thrill went to the missionary’s heart. 
Ah! now, indeed, A-chon-ho-ah was getting 
near the light. 

He left her with an earnest, musing look 
upon her face; but there was joy in the look, 
as well as earnestness. 

The next day, as soon as he entered the 
room, she greeted him radiantly: “Oh! I have 
been so happy since you told me that about 
Jesus coming to dwell in our hearts,” she said. 
“Ever since I heard of him and of his coming 
I have been looking for him to come in the 
clouds. I thought it would be upon the moun- 
tain, there where it was so beautiful and grand, 
and the ledge looked like a throne. Oh ! I did 
wait and long and watch for him so! All the 
morning of the day that they said was his 
birthday I stood in the cold and wind of the 
prairie, Wanda and I, and watched for his 
coming. Once it seemed that he was really 
coming, for there was such a beautiful light 
that shone out from the clouds. Then Wanda 
had to go, and they sent to tell me that my 
httle sister was dying. Oh! that was so awful 
that I forgot all about Dau-ka-ye. But I 
thought of him again as I was wandering 


263 


At Last the Light, 

through the snow and the darkness. I did so 
long to see even a little ray of light. Oh! it 
was so terrible not to find him there on the 
mountain! And I had felt so sure that 
he would come, as it was the day of his 
birth.” 

The missionary took her hand, gazing earn- 
estly in her eyes. 

“My poor child,” he said, “how great has 
been the darkness in which you have wan- 
dered!” Then, after a moment’s pause, he 
continued, “A-chon-ho-ah, Dau-ka-ye will 
come, and, as you have pictured, in the clouds ; 
but, as to when that time is to be, no one 
knows, not even the angels in heaven. Then 
we shall see him with the eye ; now we have to 
feel him with the heart, for though he comes to 
dwell with us now, as I have read you in the 
little Testament, he does not reveal himself to 
us, that is, to our eyes, but we are aware of his 
presence in our hearts by the gladness he brings 
there.” 

A-chon-ho-ah’s eyes glowed radiantly ; a 
quick smile parted her lips. 

“Ever since you told me that yesterday I 
have thought of it. To think Dau-ka-ye can 
come to our hearts! Almost I feel he could 
come to mine. Oh, good missionary, do you 
think, do you really think he would — he would 


264 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light. 

come and dwell in the heart of a poor little 
Indian girl like me ? ” 

“My child, I am sure of it,” Mr. Melville re- 
turned quickly, and oh, so earnestly; “only love 
him with all that heart, and he will be sure to 
take up his abode there. Only trust him, A- 
chon-ho-ah. Say, ‘Dear Jesus, I believe, I 
feel, I know that thou art my Saviour ! ’ ” 

“Oh, I do! I do!” she cried, her eyes ra- 
diant, her lips parted. “He is my Saviour. I 
feel it ! I know it ! And, oh, I am so happy ! 
so happy! Good missionary, can you not see 
how very, very happy I am? ” 

Ah ! indeed, he could see it. Who could fail 
to see it that looked upon A-chon-ho-ah’s 
glowing face at that moment ? 

At last, at last, the light! Not such light, 
nor in such a way as A-chon-ho-ah expected, 
but oh, how joyous, how beautiful! It filled 
her whole heart with radiance. It made her 
feel that she had a new heart altogether, a 
heart that fairly shone with the glorious light 
that now flooded it. Now, indeed, she had 
found and knew Dau-ka-ye; now, indeed, he 
dwelt with her. 

Yes, at last, at last the light — the full, beauti- 
ful, joyous light ! Out of the shadows of hesi- 
tancy, of uncertain questionings; out of the 
murky twilight of misgivings, of doubt ; yea, out 


265 


At Last the Lights 

of tlie very darkness of ignorance, of supersti- 
tion, of despair, A-chon-ho-ah. had come unto 
the Light — unto that Light which if anyone has, 
and it abides with him, he never more stumbles. 

If you had known Anadarko at the time the 
events narrated in this story took place, and 
should go there now that five' years have 
elapsed, you would be surprised at the 
changes, especially in that portion adjacent 
to the mission-house. The church has grown 
wonderfully, not only the building, but also the 
membership. There is also a large two-story 
hall, where the Indians meet for seasons of 
improvement to mind and heart — Christian 
Endeavor meetings in fact. Eut there is a 
greater addition still. This is the school op- 
erated by the good missionary women of the 
church to which Mr. Melville belongs. This 
school has nearly a hundred pupils, and is 
doing a glorious work. There is a young na- 
tive teacher engaged in this school in whom I 
am sure you would be interested at first sight. 
There would certainly be something familiar 
in the slim, graceful figure, the earnest face 
and speaking eyes. It is, in short, none other 
than our old friend A-chon-ho-ah. But, oh, 
such a different A-chon-ho-ah she is now! 
educated, refined, and her whole life radiant 


* 266 How A-chon-ho-ah Found the Light, 

with that beautiful light that has never ceased 
to shine for her since that day, five years ago, 
when she came so joyously into it. Narva, 
too, is in this school, a sturdy, earnest girl, 
and one of its most promising pupils. Atogeer 
also has become a Christian, and Ton-ke-a-bau 
no longer opposes the good missionary nor any 
of his work. As to poor little Wanda, she died 
the very day that A-chon-ho-ah began to sit 
up, from the effects of a cruel beating bestowed 
by Har-we-poy-er a week before while in a 
rage. Her parents could do nothing with him, 
because he denied the beating, and there was 
no witness bold enough to fasten it upon him. 

A-chon-ho-ah mourned long and deeply for 
her friend, her little playmate. She never saw 
her again after that day on the prairie when 
together they had watched for the coming of 
Dau-ka-ye, never again! But now, when she 
thinks of her, it is never of the Wanda cowed, 
miserable and abused, but always of the happy, 
bright-eyed Wanda she will meet “ in the beau- 
tiful light of God.’* 
















I 


I 


t 

I 


/ ' • 


S'. 







f 






. '^* H., • m% ^ ^ . '■*<* 

■ f--g-:?---f. . . =•;. ■■ r '- -^ ■■ .^^y0L. - Jyim 






' ‘ kV 



V' 


-- •• ^ r*^ - 4. 

/V ‘ •'* ^ 

' ^ ‘ s * ^ 


r ■ > i-’ V— 









































